


with the wild wolves around you

by Phosphorescent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 08, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Swearing & Slurs, Crypts of Winterfell, F/M, Gen, I'll still never be quite as bad at them as D&D have these past few seasons, I'm not very good at creating plots or writing politics, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Multiple, Post-Season/Series 07, R plus L equals J, References to non-endgame Jon/Dany, UST, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Westerosi Politics, but I console myself with the knowledge that no matter HOW badly I mess up, the pack survives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorescent/pseuds/Phosphorescent
Summary: "It will take far more than Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons to bring the North to heel, even if shedoescome with your seal of approval.”





	1. Tyrion I

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Bon Iver's "The Wolves (Act I and II)".  
>    
>   
> This fic's been itching at my brain for a while, but I fought against writing it. I fought _hard_ , using all of the usual arguments (you have other WIPs that should be your focus! battles and political intrigue aren't your forté and that's 90% of GOT! you'll run out of steam half way through the story! D&D have created more narrative inconsistencies than you can paper over believably!)... and I lost. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Updates will probably be slow and sporadic, so my apologies in advance.
> 
> I've made an adjustment to the timeline, because if D&D can consistently use teleportation in the name of "plausible impossibilities" and still get paid, then I'm allowed to manipulate the passage of time too. SO. That whole scene where dead!Viserion becomes undead!Viserion and the Night King uses him to burn/melt down the Wall? It hasn't happened yet in this fic. Those scenes were a flash-forward rather than something happening in real time.
> 
> I'm still getting a feel for these characters' voices, so please don't hesitate to tell me if they seem OOC to you. Constructive criticism --> better fics for you to read in the future, after all. That said, feedback of all sorts is always highly appreciated!

 

Sansa Stark, Tyrion mused, had really come into her own.

Oh, Jon had suggested as much back on Dragonstone all those weeks ago, but it was one thing to hear it and another to  _see_.

Jon Snow might still command allegiance from the North, but it was clear to anyone with eyes that it was she who was the power behind the throne.

She had greeted their party with every proper courtesy, but after their initial embrace, her behavior towards her bastard half-brother had been stiff and distant. This hadn’t come as a surprise to Tyrion—from his recollection, the two of them had never been particularly close.

What  _had_  been a surprise was Jon Snow’s quietly pained expression at her distinct coolness. Which suggested that this was no longer her usual behavior towards him.

There was a touch of stiffness in his other siblings’ greetings too, but that felt different somehow.

Arya Stark, he thought, was  _furious_ —but more with himself and Daenerys than with her brother, whom she clearly still adored. As for Brandon Stark, Tyrion didn’t get the impression that the boy felt particularly angry or betrayed or… well,  _anything_ , really. There was something strange going on there. Residual damage from his time as Greyjoy’s captive, perhaps? Or was it from something that had happened afterwards? …Come to think of it, where  _had_  the boy been holed up all this time?

Sansa, however, he couldn’t get much of a read on at all. But then she’d always been one to hide behind her courtesies, hadn’t she?

He admired her for it, even as it vexed him.

This pattern of behavior continued on into supper. Due to the late hour, it was a private affair, but they were assured that the traditional welcoming feast would be held another evening.

Jon chatted eagerly with Arya, ruffling her hair and beaming at her; he frequently drew Daenerys into their conversation, with varying levels of success. Arya, he noticed, couldn’t quite seem to decide whether she wanted to slit his queen’s throat or to beg her for dragon-riding lessons.

Bran ate mechanically, speaking to no one.

And Sansa…

Sansa was utterly ignoring Jon, but doing it so artfully that it was impossible to verify whether it was intentional.

Tyrion, however, knew better than to think  _anything_  Sansa Stark did these days was unintentional… and if the growing number of looks Jon kept throwing her way were any indication, he knew that too.

…He looked at her a great deal throughout that evening, as a matter of fact. It only added to the general atmosphere, filled as it was with tension—presumably over Jon’s decision to bend the knee.

 _Lovely_ , Tyrion thought, _No sooner do I escape my own beloved family than I’m thrust into the middle of someone_ else’s _family quarrels._  

Still, he was determined to enjoy the meal, so he turned to Bran, who sat beside him, and said, “I was deeply sorry to hear of your supposed demise, my lord. I’m glad to see you made it safely back to your home.”

Bran stared ahead blankly, giving no sign that he had heard a word of Tyrion’s speech. Undeterred, Tyrion continued to keep the conversation afloat.

“Tell me, which would you recommend: the blood sausage or the venison with fried onions?” 

The quantity of meat offered was far smaller than he was used to—rationing, Sansa had explained with an apologetic smile—but both smelled good enough to set his belly to rumbling.

“More than mere food sustains me now,” Bran said flatly. “I am the Three Eyed Raven.”

 _Whatever_ that _is supposed to mean._

“I suppose it’s just as well raven isn’t on the menu then, isn’t it?” Tyrion said lightly, and helped himself to a serving of each. 

“I take a different view,” Bran said, voice and eyes distant. “If there is food I eat it, in case there is none on the morrow.”

The words sounded oddly familiar, almost like something he’d say himself.

“Very sensible,” Tyrion said, smiling. “I agree entirely.”

Bran did not smile in return.

And say what Tyrion would afterwards, Bran spoke no more that evening.

 

 

When supper had finally concluded and he’d been escorted to the rooms that had been prepared for him, he slipped away to explore instead of resting. 

If caught and questioned, he could always claim to have gotten lost, after all. The Starks might not believe him, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything, and they would not risk rupturing their tentative alliance with Daenerys’ forces by accusing him without proof.

Winterfell was every bit as cold and grim and grey as he’d remembered. Even moreso, perhaps, considering all that happened within its walls since then.

He shuddered ever so slightly at the thought. 

He had, he admitted, been bitter about Sansa’s abandonment of him in the wake of Joffrey’s poisoning—even knowing that staying would have yielded nothing besides her own imprisonment and potential death—but he had never once wished  _that_  fate upon her.

He wouldn’t wish Ramsay Bolton on  _anyone_ , let alone someone he liked and respected; certainly not upon anyone as innocent as Sansa Stark had been.

He suspected there was not much innocence left in her now. Life had been too cruel to her for that.

Before long, his pretense of being lost had turned half-true. Tyrion had been here before, but that was a lifetime ago—and he was fairly certain he’d spent most of that time in the library or drunk. Or both.

Besides, all the corridors here looked exactly the same, damn it. The lack of tapestries that had once adorned the walls didn’t help. He could only suppose the Bolton bastard had had them burnt…or perhaps Greyjoy before him. Not that it mattered now. 

Hmmm, the library… now there was an idea.

He flagged down the first servant he saw and asked directions.

As he had expected, he’d gone the exact opposite direction he should have if he wanted to visit the library. According to the maid, he was practically to the crypts.

…He hadn’t visited the crypts last time round. And he  _had_  thought to explore a little…

The library, he decided, could wait.

  

 

If Winterfell was cold and grim and grey, its crypts were colder and grimmer and greyer yet.

Despite his cloak and gloves, the subterranean chill had him shivering as he descended the steep, narrow stairway into the vault. Though well worn by the foot traffic of centuries, the steps were not so worn down as to be easily traversed by a man with legs as short as his own, and so it was slow going.

 _You don’t belong here_ , the very pillars around him seemed to whisper.

Tyrion scolded himself for the fancy, but it wouldn’t leave.

This place was ancient—he could feel it in his bones. Huge and hollow, the vault’s gaping maw swallowed the light. Indeed, the flickering flame of the torches only cast the shadows around him into deeper relief.

And then there were the statues.

Row after row of them there were, as far as the eye could see, stretching into the blackness: the great departed Lords of Winterfell keeping their eternal vigil over the dead.

Curled about the feet of each was a snarling stone direwolf, while an iron longsword was laid across each one’s lap. Several of the swords had half-succumbed to rust; in the dim light, these rusted patches gave the impression of old bloodstains.

The statues’ eyes seemed to follow him, their stony faces implacable.

 _Stranger_ , they said, in their heavy voices of granite and iron.  _Begone. You don’t belong here._  

 _I know_ , he responded in kind.

According to legend, Bran the Builder had built this place. If it really  _was_  that old, that meant that the old Kings of Winter must be buried here somewhere too, deep, deep below.

The thought thrilled him, even as it made him strangely uneasy.

_Hmph._

Tyrion huffed a faint laugh at his own foolishness. Even if the Kings of Winter  _were_  here, they were nothing but bones and stone—naught to be afraid of. Not like the Dead that were coming for them from beyond the Wall.

 _Though wouldn’t_ that _be ironic_ , he thought,  _if the dead beneath were to destroy us before the Night King’s army could even make it past the Wall._

That was when the sound of footsteps and voices reached his ear. Instinct had him ducking into one of the many niches and out of sight before he could think the action through.

“—had no  _right_.”

That was Sansa.

“What was I to do? Tell me, Sansa.”

Tyrion recognized that voice too: Jon Snow.

“Not hand her the North on a platter! And if there truly was no choice but to bend the knee, there were smarter ways to go about it. Gods be good, Jon, you gave her  _everything_ —and that means we have  _nothing_  left to bargain with. You’ve put our lives entirely in the hands of a woman I don’t even know; do you really trust her  _that_   _much_?”

Tyrion waited with great interest for Jon’s answer… and when it came, it wasn’t the one he had expected.

“Our lives were  _already_  in her hands,” Jon snapped back. “The Long Night is here and she has dragonglass and  _dragons_. Acknowledging her power over us was just a formality… and one that will make her better disposed towards us, at that.”

 _Hmm_. Tyrion hadn’t thought the man had that much political acumen in him.

Sansa, however, seemed to disagree. 

“ _Just_  a formality? Jon, appearances  _mean_  something… they shape reality. How else do you think I survived King’s Landing? How else do you think I’ve managed to hold Winterfell in your absence?”

“Aye, but appearances are useless if we’re all  _dead_.”

“…And in the meantime? And afterwards, if we  _aren’t_  dead? What then?”

“Daenerys has a good heart.”

Silence.

When Sansa finally spoke, her voice was hollow.

“A ‘good heart’,” she repeated. “You’ve put us at the mercy of the whims of a foreign queen because you think she has a ‘good heart’.”

“She’s not foreign,” Jon protested, echoing Tyrion’s own thoughts.

“She hadn’t set foot in Westeros until a month or two ago,” Sansa said crisply. “She hadn’t set foot in the North until this week. Regardless, she isn’t of the North, and in the eyes of the lords and smallfolk alike, that makes her a foreigner here. Perhaps more importantly, she _knows_ nothing of the North... and if we defeat the Night King and she takes the Iron Throne, she's hardly likely to spend time here learning our ways. You know as well as I that an advisor or two in King's Landing won't be enough unless she _already_  has an understanding of the North; advisors are far too easy to ignore.”

Jon let out a sigh.

“I know the North has sacrificed much for the sake of independence, but you told me to be smarter than Robb," he said. "Besides, this is more important than crowns and realms—this is about the very survival of humanity.”

“Jon, the Northern Lords chose  _you_  as their ruler, not Daenerys Targaryen. They won’t accept her… and they won’t long accept the king who pledged the North to her. Not once it becomes clear that you're serious about it.”

Her tone had started out pleading, but had moved to cautioning by the end.

“Aye, they chose me as their king. Their  _king_ , Sansa, not their representative. And that means they must accept my decisions.”

His voice was firm and commanding, but Sansa did not let that stop her.

“King or no, the North wasn’t yours to give away.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought that’s  _exactly_  what being King of the North meant.”

“A title means nothing if it holds no value to its audience. Even a king can lose his crown… or his head.”

From his hiding place, Tyrion took in a sharp breath—then froze, afraid of discovery. It was only once they began to speak again that he dared to let it back out again, slowly and silently.

“Is that a threat?” Jon asked.

“It’s a  _warning_.” The clear undertone:  _You idiot._  “You’ve put our family in an incredibly precarious position. The North only narrowly accepted Torrhen Stark’s decision… and that was  _before_  it shed as much blood as it has in the past few years. That was  _before_  it suffered decades—centuries, even!—at the dubious mercy of one Southron ruler after another. No, it will take far more than Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons to bring the North to heel, even if she  _does_  come with your seal of approval.”

Sansa’s words rung true, and Tyrion winced. He had  _known_ that gaining the North’s allegiance wouldn’t be as easy as gaining Jon Snow’s, but he had  _hoped_ …

“Two dragons,” Jon corrected.

“Two?” Tyrion could almost  _see_  her raised eyebrow.

“One died beyond the Wall at the hands of the Night King.

She muttered something in exasperation that sounded a great deal like “ _Bran_ ” and “would have been  _useful_ ”, but Tyrion wasn’t sure how her younger brother fit into all of this.

After a moment, she continued. “And if the North won’t bow for three dragons, what makes you think it will bow for  _two_?”

“What about the army of the dead?” he asked bitterly. “Will  _that_  be enough to make them accept her as Queen?”

“If things truly become that desperate,” Sansa said, “then yes. But they’ll never forget that she withheld her aid until they bent the knee, and they’ll never forgive her for it. And we Starks will be the ones to pay the price for it.”

“The price?” he said, and Tyrion could all but see the frown on that long face of his.

“Let us assume for a moment that the gods hear our prayers and all of our remaining family makes it through the Great War," Sansa said. "Surely you can’t imagine that your queen will justallow us to live our lives as we see fit? We’re too much of a threat. She’ll fear—and perhaps rightfully so—that the people of the North might rally around us and rise in rebellion against her. I suspect that one of us will be an ‘honored guest’ of hers for the rest of our lives, so as to keep the North in line. …Given the choice, I’d as lief as die before being a hostage in the Red Keep again.” 

Tyrion winced again. Her assessment of events… wasn’t entirely wrong.

Daenerys had a gentle heart and the noblest of intentions, but she could be nearly as ruthless as his sweet sister if she thought you a genuine threat to her goals.

It was something he rather admired about her, truth be told.

“Sansa…” Jon sounded half-broken. “I would never let that happen to you.  _Never._ But Dany isn’t like that.”

Sansa laughed, sharp and brittle as broken glass.

“Jon,” she said, almost gently, “she’s a  _conqueror_. She’s a  _monarch_. Of  _course_  she’s like that. And I don't blame her—it would be the smart move to make. …But you’re right, perhaps her advisors would convince her that there was a more  _diplomatic_  way to hold myself or Arya hostage: marriage to one of her most loyal lords. But if you think Arya wouldn’t fight such a thing tooth and nail—quite literally, causing a whole  _host_  of diplomatic problems!—then your time in the South has scrambled your wits more than I’d thought. And if you think  _I_  would submit to such a thing once again…”

She broke off here, and silence reigned for a few moments.

When she spoke again, her voice was small but hard, and Tyrion’s heart broke for her anew. “I’d do it, if I had to. To keep our family safe. Is that what you want to hear? I’d leave the home I spent years trying to return to. I’d leave the home I sacrificed my maiden’s gift and spilt my own blood to reclaim. I’d give a stranger complete power over my person and bear him heirs, never mind that I can’t think on the getting of them without wanting to retch after Ramsay. Is that what you want from me,  _Your Grace_?”

“Damn it, Sansa, you  _know_  that isn’t what I want from you—” 

“I thought I knew what you wanted once, but clearly I was wrong. So please, tell me for true:  _what do you want of me_? I have been your loving sister, I have been your advisor, I have been your leal subject… and apparently none of that was enough for you. Certainly not enough for you to seek my counsel on vital matters of state, at least.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to laugh, bitter and slightly hysterical.

“Does it matter? Rather ask: what do I want  _for_   _you_? I want you to be safe and I want you to be happy. I want you to live to a ripe old age and die surrounded by those you love, knowing that  _you_  are loved and that their futures are secure.”

There was a strange tension here, humming in the air like the pressure before a storm.

“And you truly think that ceding our autonomy to a notoriously capricious queen who knows nothing of the North is the best way to bring about this picture?”

The question sounded genuine rather than mocking.

Jon merely let out a tired sigh.

“I think,” he said at last, “that it is the best way to ensure that you and Arya and Bran remain  _alive_. And… I think that there is very little I wouldn’t do in service of that.”

Sansa let out a sigh of her own.

“Oh,  _Jon_ ,” she said, but her voice was softer than the words alone might have suggested.

There was a rustle of fabric and then silence for another handful of seconds.

At length, Jon said, “It doesn’t look like him.”

Sansa let out a faint laugh.

“It really doesn’t,” she agreed, “Arya said the same thing. But between the Lannisters, the Freys, the Ironborn, and the Boltons, there wasn’t a stonemason left in the North who had seen him up close. We gave descriptions, of course, but… well, you can see how well  _that_  worked.”

 _Ah, so_ that _was what they were talking about._

Silence again.

“Sometimes I wonder what Father would have done in my place. What Robb would have done,” Jon said. “But there’s no way to know, is there? They’re gone.”

A pause.

“But we’re still alive,” Sansa said.

“Aye. And I intend to  _keep_  you that way.”

He sounded as unyielding as the stone surrounding them.

“As do I you,” she said, and the stubbornness in her voice was more than a match for his.

Having reached an impasse, silence descended over them once more. 

The muscles of Tyrion’s right calf had begun to cramp, doubtless from those blasted steps, and he struggled to remain still. The chances of his discovery were far higher during moments such as these, he knew.

Finally, Sansa spoke.

“Bran wants you to come his chambers as soon as we’re done here. He says he saw something important—something that you need to know.”

“Has he learned more about the Night King?”

“I have no notion. He insisted that it was for your ears alone. …Don’t think that I’ve forgiven you yet, by the way.” 

Her voice was serious, but it carried an edge of teasing.

“I wouldn’t dare, my lady.”

 _That_  sounded almost flirtatious.

Clearly Tyrion’s years with Jaime and Cersei had corrupted him more than he’d thought if he was reading flirtation into an innocent jest between siblings.

“ _Good_. Because Arya wants to talk to you after Bran’s had his turn.”

Jon snorted. “I’m surprised she didn’t insist on going first.”

“So was I. But then she explained that you wouldn’t be fit for conversation after she’d finished with you, so she supposed it only fair that she go last.”

“…You weren’t lying when you claimed you hadn’t forgiven me,” he said, clearly only half-joking.

“That reminds me: Arya and Bran… I love them, Jon, but you need to be aware that they’ve  _changed_.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“Not like this. You’ve already seen it a bit in Bran, but…” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Of our siblings,  _you_  are the one who is coping best—and you were  _literally brought back from the dead_. That should tell you something.”

…

 _Well._  This was proving to be a  _most_  enlightening exercise.

“What  _happened_ , Sansa?”

“Those are their stories to tell, as much or as little as they choose; I’m still piecing it all together myself. And I wouldn’t say any of this except that I want you to be  _prepared_. Bran never acts like his old self, and Arya… Arya can turn on a copper star. You mustn’t take anything… odd… that they say too personally. They still love you, I know,  _especially_  Arya.”

“…Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. But they both have a right to be upset with me every bit as much as you do.”

“Bran isn’t upset at all. And I don’t think Arya is as angry with you as much as she’s angry with the Queen and her advisors… she's convinced herself that they manipulated you,” Sansa said, verifying Tyrion’s hypotheses, “and I'm not sure that she's entirely wrong. But that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what  _did_  you mean, Sansa? I weary of these word games.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll give you an example. When Bran returned, one of the first things he told me was that he’d seen me the night of my wedding. How sorry he was that it had _had_ to happen. How  _beautiful_  I’d looked in my white dress.”

But Sansa hadn’t worn white; she’d worn cloth-of-gold brocade—

Oh.

_Oh._

He felt ill.

Jon must have made some sort of facial expression to that effect, because Sansa hastened to say, “I think he meant it to be kind.”

“ _Kind_?” Jon asked, voice choked with sorrow or rage or disbelief. Perhaps it was all three at once.

“This is precisely why I’m warning you,” Sansa said tiredly. After a moment, she added, “It may not seem that way, but I  _am_  glad to have you home, Jon. Come, I’ll take you to Bran.”

Tyrion all but held his breath as they left the crypt. When he was certain they were gone, he heavily took a seat, mind spinning fast enough to make him dizzy.

His explorations had proved more fruitful than he ever could have imagined.

The only question was: What did it all  _mean_? And with that determined—what should he  _do_  about it?


	2. Arya I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for your comments! I'm working on responding to them, it just takes me a while. No reply **≠** a lack of appreciation for the comment; no reply = grad school + work + executive dysfunction.  
>     
> Despite my best efforts, I can't make myself believe that Arya and Sansa were playing Littlefinger all along this season. (Nor was this D&D's intention if we go by their 'Inside the Episode' video, but Death of the Author means that while I'm willing to keep their intentions in mind, ultimately what I _actually see_ in the text matters more to me than what they just _wanted_ me to see. More power to those of you who can successfully headcanon that Arya and Sansa were playing Littlefinger the entire season, though!) So how to explain Arya's behavior? Well, you'll see my take on it in this chapter (and in the end notes).
> 
> Also, FYI: the text I've quoted from the High Septon's diary in this chapter is roughly taken from [these photographs of the prop used on the show](http://www.makinggameofthrones.com/production-diary/text-revelations-see-the-significant-letter-and-diary-from-episode-7). (I say "roughly" because many of the actual words are difficult to decipher.)

* * *

  

_Nothing._

Arya cursed silently as she put all of Tyrion Lannister’s belongings back as she’d found them, right down to the strand of hair threaded through the clasp on his saddlebag.

There had been _nothing_ new or useful that she could glean from the possessions in his room—not unless you counted his interest in dusty histories, which Arya didn't. 

 _What were you expecting, idiot_ , she thought, shaking her head at herself in disgust, _a diary detailing all of his plans?_

The Imp was smarter than that. 

Still, she’d expected to find _something_.

He was the sort of man who’d have secret compartments built into his trunks—the more needlessly complex, the better, so he could feel just _that_ much cleverer than everyone else—but Arya had yet to discover a single one.

Perhaps one of his tomes had a hollowed out inside?

She’d just finished paging through a copy of _The Conquest of Dorne_ when she heard a set of distinctive shuffling steps in the distance. Rather than try to hide, she pulled a dagger from her belt and chose to brazen it out.

After what was only moments in reality, but felt like a full hour, the door opened and Tyrion Lannister stepped through, a pitcher of wine in his hand and a dazed expression on his face.

 _So_ that’s _where he was._ _Gods, can’t the man last an hour without a drink?_

“Tyrion Lannister,” she murmured, twirling the dagger between her fingers, and stalked towards him. “The Imp. Acting Hand to Joffrey Lannister and now Hand to Daenerys Targaryen. …My sister tells me you were kind to her, in King’s Landing.”

He started upon hearing her voice, but she had to give him credit—he recovered quickly.

“Lady Arya, I can’t say I was expecting the pleasure of your company. Won’t you join me for a cup of mulled wine?”

He took a seat and gestured towards the two cups on the table.

So he’d been expecting company then… just not hers.

_Whose then?_

Arya remained stonily silent.

“If you’re curious, it’s from your own stores,” he added, pouring himself a cup from the pitcher and taking a long sip. “As you can see, I haven’t poisoned it.”

She hoped her gaze proclaimed how deeply unimpressed she was; the dagger’s rotation remained steady and leisurely in her hands. 

Finally he broke and said, with a sigh, “To have been kinder to her than the rest of my family is no great accomplishment. But yes, I tried to help her when I could. Perhaps not as much as I ought, in retrospect.” 

She nodded.

“If you had hurt her, you would be dead by now,” she informed him, deliberately keeping her tone bland and matter-of-fact, as though discussing the weather. “If you had allowed Jon to come to harm on Dragonstone, both you _and_ your queen would be dead by now. Keep that in mind and remember what happened to the Freys. The Lannisters aren’t the only ones who pay their debts, and winter is here.”

He stared at her, eyes wide and startled and calculating… but, she noted, there was a bit of fear in them too.

_Good._

She then slipped back out of the room, closing the door behind her noiselessly, and began to make her way towards Bran’s chambers. 

As she walked, her thoughts whirled.

Jon had _bent the knee_ to a Targaryen.

 _Why_?

She’d heard the whispers, of course—whispers that he was infatuated, that Daenerys Targaryen had seduced him into her service—but she hadn’t believed it for a second. This was _Jon_ , after all. He was stupid, but he wouldn’t give the North away just because he fancied himself in love.

He wouldn’t give the North away just because someone had impressed him, either. Jon was loyal to the bone.

Robb and Mother had _died_ because they were fighting for an independent North. Jon knew that. Jon would never willingly undermine their sacrifices. 

No, they must have tricked him somehow, this queen and her two-faced Hand.

Jon had told her over supper that Daenerys had saved his life beyond the Wall, and Arya was indebted to the woman for it… but that didn’t mean she trusted her. Even if she  _did_ ride dragons into battle like Queen Visenya.

Before she knew it, Arya was in front of the door to Bran's chambers. If he wasn’t done speaking to Jon by now, too bad… she’d given them _ample_ time.

When she entered the room, however, Bran was by himself. He sat in his wheelchair staring out the window into the night.

Arya couldn’t see the attraction, herself—the view wasn’t anything special. 

“Ah, you’re here,” he said without turning around.

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. 

“Where’s Jon?” she asked.

“Jon Snow never actually existed,” Bran said. “He needs some time to come to terms with that.” 

_What the buggering—_

“What are you _talking_ about?”

Bran finally turned to face her. Before he could say anything, however, Sansa joined them in a swirl of skirts, wearing what Arya had come to think of as her Lady of Winterfell Face—hatefully cool and placid. It made her want to claw that Face off and get her sister back.

“Sam said you wanted to talk to me?” Sansa said briskly.

“Yes,” Bran said. “Close the door. We have much to speak of, and the walls have ears.”

Arya obeyed with alacrity, and bolted the door for good measure.

“What is this about, Bran?” Sansa asked. 

“There is another with a better claim to the Iron Throne than Daenerys Targaryen,” Bran said. “He will be instrumental in the fight against the Night King, for both ice and fire run through his veins.”

“Gods, who’s claiming the bloody thing _now_?” Arya groaned, choosing to ignore the latter half of her brother’s statement for the moment.

Sansa pursed her lips but didn’t reprimand her for her language.

“The Baratheon line is all but extinct,” Sansa said with a frown. “Renly left behind no heirs, Stannis _burnt_ his, and all of King Robert’s are unacknowledged bastards _…_ assuming there are any still alive, that is. Daenerys Targaryen is the sole surviving member of _her_ line—Rhaella, Rhaegar, Rhaenys, Aegon, and Viserys Targaryen are all dead. You certainly can’t be talking about Cersei Lannister, for all that she sits on the Iron Throne at present. And while I suppose it’s possible the Blackfyres aren’t as extinct as once thought, no member of their house could possibly have a better claim than Daenerys Targaryen. So who's left?”

“You’re wrong,” Bran said. “Aegon Targaryen lives.”

“His skull was smashed in by the Mountain during the Sack of King’s Landing,” Arya said. “ _Everyone_ knows that. Are you saying the dead body everyone saw was a fake?”

“Oh no, that Aegon is dead,” Bran said. 

Arya exchanged a look of exasperation with her sister.

“So…there’s _another_ Aegon Targaryen?” Arya asked with a snort. 

“Yes. He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Aunt Lyanna,” Bran said. “When Father found Aunt Lyanna in the Tower of Joy she was dying from childbed fever. She told him the boy’s name and made him promise to protect him.”

“We have a cousin,” Sansa murmured.

There was something strange going on behind her eyes, but Arya was more interested in what Bran had to say than in puzzling out her sister’s thoughts. 

_A cousin…_

“Where is he?” Arya asked. “Where did Father hide him?”

“Search yourself; you already know.” When neither of them said anything, he continued, “The best place is always in plain sight. So Father brought home a baby boy and claimed him as his own bastard. He told no one—not even his wife or the boy himself. He took the secret with him to his grave, but it can remain a secret no longer.” 

_No._

Bran’s meaning immediately registered.

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Arya snapped. “Father wouldn’t—”

“Lie to protect someone he loved?” Sansa said quietly. “What would you call his confession on the steps of Baelor’s Sept then?” 

“That was different,” Arya protested.

Sansa ignored her, however, and turned back to Bran, saying, “You’re sure of this?”

“Yes,” said Bran. “But you needn’t take just my word. Samwell Tarly brought us documentation from the Citadel.”

He gestured lazily to a book lying on the writing desk.

Arya seized it.

There, in black ink, were the fateful words, clear as the nose on her face and twice as difficult to ignore.     

> _280 th Day of my 58th Year_
> 
> _Due to unforeseen events and counsel, I have been prohibited from setting down my records for something today. I have granted an annulment to Prince Rhaegar for his […] marriage to Elia Martell and presided over his new marriage to Lyanna Stark in Dorne. He forbid me to tell anyone of the ceremony so I shall not._
> 
> _1 bowel movement, post ceremony._

The Sansa of old would have sighed over how ro _man_ tic it all was. (Minus the part about shitting, of course.) Star-crossed lovers, a secret marriage, a maiden in a tower, a hidden prince raised as a bastard—it was like one of her stupid songs.

This strange new Sansa, however, turned pale and still when she read the record over Arya’s shoulder.

“Who else knows?” Sansa asked at last.

“Living?” Bran asked.

“Yes, Bran, _living_ ,” Sansa said. “This is important.”

“The three of us, Jon, Samwell Tarly, and Gilly.”

“This doesn’t prove anything about _Jon_ , though,” Arya said with a shake of her head. “It just says that Rhaegar Targaryen annulled his marriage to Elia Martell and married Lyanna Stark. There’s no mention of a birth.”

“No,” Sansa said, “But it does support what Bran’s been saying. And it makes _sense_. Which seems more likely to you from what we know of Father: that he’d break his marriage vows and then insist on raising the bastard that resulted from it under his wife’s nose, or that he’d pretend his sister’s son was his own to protect him from the King’s wrath?”

“You _want_ it to be true,” Arya said, horrified realization slowly dawning. “You never wanted Jon as a brother to start with. This way he isn’t a stain on our House’s honor and all that rot. And because he isn’t a bastard, it’s suddenly understandable that he’s a good person.”

“How can you thi—” 

“Well, _I_ don’t care. Jon’s always been my brother and this doesn’t change anything. I’m going to tell him so. You can come with me or not.”

“Don’t you dare bother Jon right now, Arya. If… if this is true, he’s going to want some time alone before he’ll be ready to listen to any of us.”

 _He’ll want time alone to beat himself up for something he can’t help, you mean_ , Arya thought sourly. _He’ll want time alone to imagine that we don’t love him and decide that he doesn’t actually belong in Winterfell._

_Well, fuck that._

She strode purposefully out of the room, ignoring Sansa’s calls after her.

When she reached Jon’s rooms, she tried the door, but it was locked. She pounded on the door to no avail.

“Jon, if you don’t answer me, I’m picking the lock and coming in,” she said. “You know I’ll do it.”

At last, he responded roughly, “What is it, Arya?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Now’s not a good time,” he said.

“Too bad. You need to hear the things I’m going to tell you.”

“ _Not now_ ,” he snapped, voice harsher she’d ever heard it directed at her. “Go _away_.” 

She recoiled instinctively at the words, but set her chin and held her ground.

“You’re my _brother_. I’m not going to leave you alone when you’re hurting,” she snapped back.

He laughed bitterly.

“Am I? …Don’t answer that.” Tone softening, he added, “Please leave, Arya. I swear I’ll let you say your piece later but… not right now. _Please_.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. Jon _never_ begged.

“Fine,” she snapped, turning on her heel. 

As she stalked through the corridors, Sansa’s earlier words played through her mind:

 _‘Don’t you dare bother Jon’_ , Sansa had said. _‘Bother’_ _him._

Arya had long comforted herself with the fact that even if no one else wanted her, Jon always would. She could never be a ‘bother’ to him.

And just as she had always known, he _had_ wanted her.

 _“Little sister,”_ Jon had said when he'd first seen her, and when his arms had wrapped around her she’d finally felt _home_ for the first time since she’d entered Winterfell. (For the first time since she’d left Winterfell all those years ago.) 

His beard might be less patchy now and there were furrows in his brow that she didn’t remember, but although his eyes were older, they still held that same sweetness. His smile was still the same—a warm, fleeting thing that felt like a secret meant just for the two of them.

Arya had known then that Jon still understood her; that Jon would never turn her away.

Except that he just had.

It had hurt in a way that she hadn’t been aware she _could_ hurt anymore.

A girl might have reclaimed her name, but it wasn't so easy to leave the House of Black and White behind. Facelessness was not something that could simply be discarded like a dirty garment… it became part of you. Or was it more accurate to say that you became part of _it_?

Her mind was a confusing place these days. Spots where certain memories had once resided were now blurs or black holes of screaming nothingness in her mind. And her emotions were strangely muted and oft-times hard to reach. Like fine grey mist, slipping formless through her fingers; faceless shadows against a wall, as seen through a warped mirror. Ghosts.

_Fitting. I’ve been a ghost too._

She did her best to act like the girl she’d once been for the sake of her family, but it was just another Face these days. She thought Bran might understand this a bit himself… what it was like to be unmade and remade as someone else. What it was like to exist on two planes of reality at once.

Once you’d danced with the Stranger, a part of you would always belong to him. She and Bran—they’d been marked by the Stranger.

Of course, so had Jon, if what Sansa had said before Jon returned home was to be believed. 

But if that was true, then why did she still feel so alone?

Jon had turned her away.

 _You’re being a baby_ , she scolded herself. _This has nothing to do with you. Jon’s life has been turned upside down… he would turn_ anyone _away right now._

 _…But that’s the problem!_ Another part of her howled. _I’m not just anyone._

And if Jon had turned her away now, not knowing all that she’d done in their years apart, how might he react if he learned the truth of her?

 _He’d turn away from you in disgust_ , a small, nasty voice whispered, _and you’d deserve it._

 _Shut up, shut_ up _!_

The walls were closing in on her.

A small, secret, _stupid_ part of her must have thought that coming home to Winterfell (to Jon) would make things like they used to be, but that was impossible. The Arya-that-was was as dead as her parents and Robb and Gendry. As dead as Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. As dead as her innocence.

Winterfell could never be as it once was.

She hurried towards the nearest door to the courtyard, her hand clenched tightly about Needle’s pommel.

She needed to hit something. If she was lucky, maybe there’d be a half-decent swordsman looking for a partner in the training yards.

 

 

When Arya returned inside hours later, she was tired and sore, but calmer.

Brienne hadn’t returned from patrol yet, so Arya had made do with multiple men in an impromptu mêlée instead.

She’d won, of course, but it had been closer than she would have liked.

_I need to be better. Faster. Stronger. Smarter._

With the White Walkers on the move, she couldn’t afford to get sloppy. Not when her family was depending on her, and all of Westeros was depending on her family. 

And that wasn’t getting into the matter of Cersei Lannister. Tyrion could claim that she’d pledged her armies to aid in the fight against the dead all he wanted… Arya still didn’t believe a word of it.

Cersei would send assassins after all of them, but Jon in particular. Arya needed to be ready to meet them. She needed to be ready to—

She suddenly became aware of someone standing behind her, and she whirled around, pulling her dagger out of its sheath.

_Oh._

“Oh, it’s just you,” Arya said, and sheathed the dagger.

“As much as I appreciate your vigilance,” Sansa said drily, “Restraint is a virtue you might want to cultivate whilst we have guests in our walls.”

“You mean the dragon queen,” Arya said.

“And her companions, yes,” Sansa said. “She has _dragons_ , Arya, even if they aren’t housed in Winterfell right now. We must be careful not to offer her insult by accident.”

“Only by accident?” Arya asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sansa sighed. “We are not having this conversation in the corridor.”

“Fine by me,” Arya said and jerked her head in the direction of the Lord’s chambers.

As they walked through the corridors, Arya added, “You still need better guards at the gates.”

“I know,” Sansa said. “It’s on my list.” 

“Your list?” Arya asked, curious despite herself.

“Of things I have to do,” Sansa said. “Nothing quite so exciting as your own list, I’m afraid, but every bit as necessary.”

She didn’t add _‘if not more so’_ , but Arya heard it all the same and bristled. Sansa was very good at saying things without ever actually saying them. It was one of her more irritating qualities. 

Arya opened the door to Sansa’s chambers and stepped through. Sansa followed, bolting the door behind her. 

“Now,” Sansa said, “what was it you wanted to discuss again?”

Her voice was quiet, as though she were afraid of eavesdroppers.

“What’s the plan?” Arya asked, taking care to keep her voice low as well.

“The plan,” Sansa repeated, deadpan.

Arya sighed in frustration. “The plan for handling the Northern lords and Daenerys Targaryen.”

“A great deal depends upon Jon himself,” Sansa said with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “And until he’s ready to talk to us…”

“So you’re saying you don’t have a plan, then,” Arya said. 

"It’s not as though this is something I’d ever dreamt to plan for," Sansa snapped. "Jon making an enemy of Daenerys Targaryen? Yes. Jon bending the knee to Daenerys Targaryen? Yes. Jon dying? It was painful, but yes. Jon secretly _being_ a Targaryen? Not so much.”

Arya huffed a faint laugh in acknowledgement of the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Gods, what a _mess_ ,” she said. 

“Agreed,” Sansa replied, taking a seat by the fire and picking up her knitting. “And you don’t know the half of it. You left before Bran finished his story.”

_…Fuck._

“What, are you secretly a Targaryen too?” Arya scoffed.

“Don’t even joke about it,” Sansa said with a delicate shudder. “No, nothing as dramatic as _that_ , thank the Gods. But Bran _did_ illustrate how badly his education has suffered due to Theon and the Boltons’ actions. As I told him, just because he can _see_ everything, that doesn’t mean that he _understands_ everything.”

“Oh?” 

“He actually thought Robert’s Rebellion was ‘based on a lie’ just because Prince Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna were supposedly in love. As though King Aerys never publicly and gruesomely killed two peers of the realm—one of them a Lord Paramount and Warden, the other his heir—without a proper trial. As though King Aerys never called for Lord Arryn to turn his innocent highborn wards over to a certain death or be labeled a traitor. But yes, _clearly_ the Rebellion was just about Rheagar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark rather than a king who had broken faith with his lords in the most egregious of ways.” 

"So Bran didn't pay attention to his history lessons," Arya said. "What does it matter?"

No matter how and why the Rebellion had started, the point was that it  _had_.

“It matters more than you’d think,” Sansa said. “Perception is everything in this game. If someone were to get their hands on that diary entry… They wouldn't even need to make the connection to Jon to create problems for us. Not if they could convince everyone to believe the same thing that Bran assumed.”

The solution seemed simple enough to Arya.

“So burn it,” she said.

“What if we need proof of Jon’s legitimacy as a bargaining chip later? Besides, that should be Jon’s decision to make.” 

“He’ll say to burn it too,” Arya said confidently. “Jon won’t care if he’s heir to the Iron Throne. He’s a Stark and that’s all that’s ever mattered to him.”

The carved bone knitting needles clicked back and forth faster and faster in Sansa’s hands as she said, “You  _do_ know I consider Jon a Stark now, don’t you? He’s family to me—perhaps not in the same way he’s family to you, but…”

 _Of_ course _it’s not the same_ , Arya thought. _I’ve_ always _been a sister to Jon._ You’ve _only just begun._

For the sake of keeping the peace, however, she didn’t say it aloud this time.

“Perhaps,” she said instead.

“That diary entry,” Sansa said abruptly. “It was rather… odd… wasn’t it?”

“Maynard was certainly obsessed with his own shit, if that’s what you mean,” Arya said with a snort. 

“ _Not_ what I was referencing, but thank you for that image, Arya,” Sansa said. “It’s just… why in the name of all the gods would Rhaegar Targaryen have _annulled_ his marriage to Elia Martell? _How_ could he have annulled it?”

Arya shrugged.

“Bribes? Royal pressure?” she volunteered. “As to the first, he thought he was in love. People in love do stupid things.”

Sansa flushed, obviously remembering how she’d behaved for love of Joffrey.

“Yes, but… they’d still need _some_ excuse for the annulment, wouldn’t they?” Sansa said. “The marriage was _clearly_ consummated—she provided him with two heirs—so they couldn’t annul it on those grounds, nor on the grounds of barrenness.”

Arya shrugged again, unable to bring herself to care much.

All of the participants were dead, after all… what did it matter what pretext had been used to grant their annulment?

“And what was Maynard doing in Dorne in the middle of the Rebellion anyway?” Sansa continued, clearly bothered by this. “He was the _High Septon._ How did he manage to get away? King Aerys was paranoid about betrayal; I can't see him letting someone so important leave the capital during a war.”

“There are ways to get in and out of King's Landing if you know what you're doing,” Arya said. "And does it really matter?"

"…I suppose not," Sansa conceded. “I meant to ask earlier—what do you make of our guests so far?”

Now  _there_  was a question with an easy answer:

“I don’t trust them.”

“Neither do I.”

_Interesting._

“Not even your former husband?” Arya asked.

“No, not even Tyrion. He was kind to me, in his own way. But he knew his family was in the wrong and he still worked to keep them in power. Just because our short-term agendas may align at the moment doesn't mean that our ideal endgames are the same. He _is_ Daenerys Targaryen’s Hand, after all.”

“And Daenerys Targaryen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know her. _Jon_ trusts her, but…”

“Jon trusts _everyone_ ,” Arya scoffed. “That’s why he has _us_. To suspect everyone for him.”

Sansa snorted but didn’t deny it.

For a few moments, there was no sound save for the fire crackling in the hearth and the steady click-clack of Sansa’s knitting needles.

“Have you overheard anything of interest?” Sansa murmured, breaking the silence.

“Not yet,” Arya said. “But the night is still young.”

 _And the Imp is bound to say a_ lot _of interesting things to that guest of his later tonight, especially after he's had another bottle or two of wine to loosen his tongue._

“Just be _careful_. I don’t think any of them would react well to eavesdroppers, and none of them are exactly novices in this game.”

“Neither am I,” Arya said, lips turning upwards in a smirk. “Besides, wolves have claws as much as lions or bears or dragons. I can defend myself.” 

“That,” Sansa said, “is precisely what I’m afraid of. _Please_ don’t escalate the situation if you get caught, Arya. We may outnumber Daenerys’ forces until the Dothraki arrive, but she could still do considerable damage to us.”

“Why? Because she has dragons? Dragons can be killed, you know.”

“Yes, but we need her and her dragons’ help to fight the Night King and his army.”

She stared at Sansa in disbelieving disgust.

“So that’s it, then? You’re just going to bow to her?”

“I never said that. But we can’t afford to alienate her until _after_ the Great War has been won. Perhaps she’ll prove herself a worthy ruler during the War. Perhaps she’ll die. But if neither of those things happens, we’ll deal with it if _we_ live long enough to see it. And in the meantime, we’ll stall her and start planning for all the different eventualities.”

_Ughhh, more politics._

Arya made a face.

“Look at it this way,” Sansa said. “This gives us time to learn more about her. Better the allies and enemies you know than those you don’t.”

“Littlefinger?” Arya asked.

It certainly _sounded_ like him.

Sansa nodded and said, “I know you hated him, but that doesn’t make his teachings worthless.”

“Perhaps,” Arya said.

Personally, she would just as soon as never hear one of Littlefinger’s stupid adages again. She already had enough lessons from unpleasant figures stored away in her head, thank you very much.

( _“Hate is good a thing as any to keep a person going. Better than most.”_

_“A lie. A sad little lie. Who are you?”_

_“Aegon Targaryen changed the rules. That’s why every child alive still knows his name 300 years after his death.”_ )

 She shivered.

She’d forgotten he’d told Arry the Cupbearer that.

Had he been planning something like the butchery at the Twins even back then?

“Are you cold?” Sansa asked. “I _told_ you you should have let me line your doublet and jerkin with fur. …Shall I call a servant to add another log to the fire?”

 _Bossy as ever._

“No,” Arya said, forcing a smile. “No, I’m fine. I should go anyway. I have things I need to do.”

“ _Carefully_ ,” Sansa emphasized.

“Carefully,” Arya agreed, and left her sister to her knitting and letters and ledgers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon for Arya's disturbing and erratic behavior in Season 7? PTSD all the way plus a potential dash of ~magical consequences~ from her time spent with the Faceless Men. That said, the latter is 100% open to reader interpretation; Arya's not the most reliable of narrators at the moment. Of course, none of the characters are completely reliable as narrators... they've all got their individual biases. 
> 
> Although Arya and Sansa may have made up on the battlements, I can't quite bring myself to believe that everything is hunky-dory between them at this point in time. Arya's not about to threaten to cut Sansa's face off again and Sansa's not about to tell Arya that she should be on her knees thanking her, but that doesn't mean that they've resolved all of their issues with one another. Their relationship will continue to develop throughout this fic, sometimes on-screen, sometimes off... but hopefully the off-screen developments won't feel as sudden or cheap as they did on the show.
> 
> For those of you going "wait, weren't Dany, Jon, Tyrion, et. al going to travel from White Harbor to Winterfell _with_ the Dothraki???", you aren't wrong and this discrepancy will be further explained in a later chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and a Happy New Year to all of you! And, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. ;-)


	3. Daenerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments! Though I remain painfully slow to respond, I truly do appreciate them. 
> 
> The chapter that you're about to read fought me every. Step. Of. The. Way. I must have re-written it at _least_ four times from different POVs before I finally settled on Dany; hopefully it feels true to character. 
> 
> Like most of the characters on this show, Daenerys is a fascinating study in contrasts: vulnerability and arrogance, fierce love and implacable hatred, deep compassion and utter indifference, a desire for revolution and a desire for restoration, the slayer of lies and someone prone to self-deception, etc. Unfortunately, like most of the characters on this show, the quality of the writing for her has _seriously_ declined over the years, which means that some of her contrasting qualities don't seem to be intentional on the writers' parts in recent seasons. So _that_ means I'm back to using ALL THE HEADCANONS to try to make sense of things again. ;-)

* * *

 

“You _did_ tell them that you bent the knee, did you not?” Daenerys asked after Jon had escorted her back to her rooms at the end of the meal.

People had been referring to him as ‘Your Grace’ _all evening long_.

“Aye,” Jon said. “I told Sansa as much in my letter.”

“Well, I’m beginning to think that she hasn’t passed the message on,” Daenerys said tartly. 

_That, or they're all using those 'Your Grace's very pointedly indeed._

“I’ll talk to her about it tonight,” Jon promised. “If she hasn’t already broken the news to the lords, I’ll do it myself.”

She nodded in satisfaction.

Jon Snow had proved himself to be a man of his word. He would address his lords and then all of this nonsense would be over and they could return to focusing on the coming wars.

“I’ll tell them that I’ve pledged my support to you, Your Grace, and I’ll do all I can to accustom them to the idea,” he continued, “but you should be prepared for an uproar. The people of the North have long memories. They won’t be happy to hear I’ve pledged us to a Targaryen. Remember, they don’t know _you_ yet… just the rumors. If you want their loyalty for true, you’ll have to earn it with your actions.”

“You’re their _K_ _ing_ ,” she emphasized. “Surely they’ll follow your lead here, just as they did in White Harbor?” 

Theirs had been a strange welcome at the Merman’s Court. Wyman Manderly and some of his retainers, they had been told, were at Winterfell, but the remaining Manderlys had been very gracious in their welcome. They’d feted her and feasted her and provided her with the finest of accommodations, all while assuring her of their loyalty… yet there had been an odd undercurrent underlying it all that she could neither explain nor forget.

“Aye,” Jon said with a lackadaisical shrug, “they’ll follow me. To a certain point. Because I’ve proved myself to them. It doesn’t hurt that I was raised here, either, nor that I have Ned Stark’s blood in my veins.”

 _Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,_ she thought with an internal roll of her eyes.

“They’re like the Dothraki, then,” she said aloud, straightening her back. “They respect strength above all else.”

_I proved myself to the Dothraki. I proved myself to the Meereenese. I can prove myself to these Northerners too._

“I… suppose,” he said. “Dany—”

“I could have sworn I told you not to call me that,” she said, lips turning up in a wry half-smile.

He let out a faint huff.

Then, lips twitching in an echo of her own, he retorted, “Search your memory, Your Grace, and you’ll find you said no such thing.”

“Semantics,” she sniffed. After a few breaths of silence, she added in an undertone, “Will I see you later tonight?” 

“I’d best not,” he said regretfully. “It wouldn’t do either of our reputations any favors if anyone were to notice.”

That was ridiculous and Daenerys said so.

“The Dothraki mate under the sky for all to see with no disgrace,” she said. “I fail to see how sharing my bed in the privacy of my room could be so very disgraceful.”

“You’re not among the Dothraki anymore, though,” he pointed out. “Things are—”

“— _Different_ in the North. Yes, yes, I know,” she said, remembering all the times he and her other advisors had said as much.

“I was going to say different in _Westeros_ ,” he said mildly.

_Are they, though? You saw no problem in sharing my bed on our journey to White Harbor. These qualms only surfaced once we arrived in the North._

All she said aloud, however, was, “I’ve noticed.” 

“Sleep well, Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head, and left the room.

Daenerys sighed and sent a servant to bring Missandei to her. If she couldn’t have Jon next to her tonight, at least she could still have a bedmate with whom she could share confidences and body heat.

As she waited for Missandei to arrive, Daenerys took stock of her chambers. They were plainer than any she’d been offered as a guest since her dragons had hatched, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be offended. From what she’d seen, Northerners were not much for personal adornment; it only made sense that they would scorn to decorate their homes much as well.

Her bed, a tall four-poster, dominated the room. It was carved of a wood so dark as to be nearly black, save for the deep reddish veins running through it.

Targaryen colors.

_I wonder if that’s why they put me here?_

“Your Grace summoned me?” Missandei said, entering the room with a neat little bow.

“Yes, I was hoping you’d share my bed tonight as we used to,” said Daenerys, giving her friend a faint smile.

“Begging your pardon for the impertinence, Your Grace, but I thought that position was already taken?” Missandei asked.

The subtext, clear as glass: _By Jon Snow._

“You _are_ impertinent,” Daenerys said, only half in jest. Seeing Missandei open her mouth to apologize, Daenerys quickly continued, “But I shall forgive it if you consent to be my bedmate tonight.” 

“Of course, Your Grace,” Missandei said. “Would you like a hand undressing?”

“ _Please_ ,” Daenerys said. “These pins have been digging into my head _all day_.”

She gestured to her hair, which had been twisted and coiled into a pale crown of intricate plaits atop her head. The effect was impressive, especially when the firelight hit it just so, but it was damnably heavy and, combined with the aforementioned pins digging into her skull, it was giving her the beginnings of a truly foul headache.

 _That’s one thing I miss about the Dothraki… they didn’t require elaborate hairstyles or headdresses or a bloody_ tokar _from their rulers… just a long braid with more bells than anyone else._

Missandei clucked in sympathy and led her to a chair. Once Daenerys was seated, she began to remove the pins.

Daenerys sighed with relief as her hair was slowly unwound, easing the pressure on her head. When the last of the pins was out and her hair hung loose about her shoulders, Missandei knelt and began to silently unfasten her boots.

_Why doesn’t he want to sleep with me now that we’re in the North? It can’t be that he’s ashamed of me, can it? That would make even less sense than refusing to share my bed out of a sudden sense of propriety…_

“He says things are _different_ in Westeros,” Daenerys mused aloud.

“Pardon?” Missandei said, lining the removed boots up against the wall.

“Jon Snow claims it would harm our reputations should it be known that we’re sharing a bed,” Daenerys said, rolling her eyes.

Missandei’s mouth opened in a silent ‘ah’ of realization. 

“As I understand it,” Missandei said in her usual careful way, “most Westerosi frown on women who sleep with men outside of wedlock. Perhaps he is trying to ensure that his people respect you?”

“By refusing his Queen’s mark of favor?” Daenerys asked, eyebrow arched in skepticism.

Missandei raised one shoulder in a graceful half-shrug.

“The ways of other peoples always seem strange at first,” she said.

That… was a fair point.

_More’s the pity._

“Then why come to my bed in the first place?”

“You are a beautiful woman, Your Grace,” said Missandei. “And he _is_ a man.”

“I know _that_ ,” Daenerys said pointedly.

 Missandei’s eyes danced with silent amusement and Daenerys’ lips began to twitch at the look on her friend’s face.

She burst into laughter.

It was freeing, for a moment, to be the young girl she had never had the chance to be, giggling and gossiping with another woman her age.

_What would it have been like to have a childhood full of scenes such as this one?_

_Perhaps if Ser Willem had never died_ …

For a moment, she could see the house with the red door before her eyes, and her heart ached with longing.

 _…No._ _If I look back, I'm lost._

As always, the moment passed. A Queen could ill afford such luxuries for long; there was always more pressing business elsewhere.

“Tell me, what are your impressions of our hosts?” she asked.

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace. I only just met them, and I am no master spy like Lord Varys.”

“If I want Varys’ opinion, I will ask him. Right now, I want to know _your_ opinion, Missandei. You are observant… and I know you will give me an unbiased picture. Varys and Tyrion still think of our hosts as they were when they first met them. But I don’t care who the Starks used to be; I want to know who they are _now_.”

Missandei nodded, her brows drawing together in thought, as her dark eyes grew solemn.

“I do not like the eyes on the boy, Lord Bran,” she said slowly. “When he looks at me, it feels as though he is looking right _through_ me… and not in the manner of so many men who see a former slave as part of the furniture.”

_Interesting._

“He reminds me of some slaves I have seen over the years, the ones who went away inside in order to survive and never came back out again.”

A chill ran down Daenerys’ spine at the description. 

“Like the Unsullied amongst the Masters of Astapor?” she asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. They were heedless to anything save for their masters’ wills. It makes me wonder… what did Lord Bran experience to make him retreat so far into himself? …And more importantly, who is his master?” 

“Why do you assume he has a master?” Daenerys asked.

“His eyes,” Missandei said with another slight shrug. “They are the eyes of one who no longer cares. If he had no master ordering him to stay, he would have departed this earth long ago, I think.”

_Oh._

Silence fell for a few minutes as Missandei unfastened Daenerys’ belt, then helped her out of her sable-trimmed overdress.

Finally, Missandei spoke again.

“I do not think either Lady Stark or Lady Arya much likes you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys blinked in surprise. She had surmised the latter herself, but as to the former…

“What makes you think that?”

“Lady Arya spent half of the meal glaring at you in suspicion,” Missandei said dryly.

“And Lady Stark?” 

“Has been subtly turning a cold shoulder to her brother ever since we arrived. The only reason I can imagine that she would do such a thing is displeasure over his decision to bend the knee to you, Your Grace… and if she is displeased with him about it, then it follows that she cannot have the highest regard for you.”

“Perhaps,” Daenerys said, frowning. “Jon _did_ warn me that it might take some time for his family and his subjects to accept me. If I were in Lady Stark’s position, I suspect I would not like me either. She seems to have wielded a great deal of power here and I have taken it—and her brother—away from her. But it is my hope that she and her sister are prepared to be reasonable.”

She let out a sigh and added, “I do not wish to wage war against Jon Snow’s people, let alone his family. I’m here to _save_ them.”

 _I want them to love me_ , she admitted to herself silently, shamefully. _I want them to think of me as one of their own._

 _“You aren’t a foreigner, Your Grace,”_ Varys had said when advising her to ride ahead of the Dothraki rather than with them. _“You were born on Dragonstone. Your ancestors lived in and ruled Westeros for some three hundred years. But first impressions are important, and you are already surrounded by Unsullied.”_

It had had the feeling of a pre-prepared speech, especially once Tyrion nodded in agreement and added, _“It would be… inadvisable… to add the Dothraki into the mix right away; not if you wish for the Northerners to see you as something more than just the foreign conqueror of Lannister propaganda. Don’t wait for them by the King’s Road, Your Grace; let them catch up to you at Winterfell.”_

She had reluctantly agreed, and even more reluctantly agreed to send her children a good distance from the walls of the winter town after their arrival at Winterfell.

 _“They’re making the smallfolk nervous,”_ Jon had said. With a wry smile, he had added, _“I think they’re making the lords nervous too.”_

 _“They don’t seem to make_ you _nervous,”_ she had said, even as she’d longed to remind him that half the _point_  of her children was to make people nervous; they were a deterrent as much as they were a weapon.

Jon had shrugged his leather-and-fur clad shoulders.

 _“Only a Targaryen or a fool wouldn’t be nervous around dragons,”_ he’d said. _“But… they’ve grown on me.”_

She smiled at the memory, but it faded as her thoughts moved onwards.

_I’ve already made multiple compromises for the sake of the North’s tender sensibilities. But when does it become too much? I refuse to have another Meereen on my hands._

_I do not wish to wage war against the Starks or the North._

_…But if they refuse to bend the knee once the fight against the Night King is won, I will do what I must._

_I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms... and I_ will _._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While romantic Jon/Dany doesn't do a thing for me on GOT and thus isn't endgame in this fic, it's not my intent to bash Daenerys herself or the ship. (That said, keep in mind that not bashing doesn't necessarily equate to being consistently portrayed in a positive light.) If I ever seem to be doing otherwise, please feel free to let me know! I may or may not change anything—for instance, it may be part of an in-progress character arc—but I _definitely_ can't fix problems I don't know about.
> 
> I picture Daenerys' overdress as being cut in a similar style to [Robinet Testard's illumination of Clytemnestra in this 1480's/1490's French translation of Boccaccio's _Des Cleres et Nobles Femmes_](http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b10515437z/f62.item); Dany's wearing her usual trousers and boots underneath it, of course. (And she's obviously not wearing a hennin or a veil either. Women regularly covering their hair doesn't seem to be a thing in Westeros, which is kind of strange when you look at the periods of history GRRM is drawing from.)
> 
> In other news, I've actually resorted to sticky notes in an attempt to keep track of all the characters and the most important of the story elements needed to wrap up this final "season" of GOT. (Which, don't get me wrong, is still _leagues_ easier than it would be if I was trying to write an ASOIAF fic. *shudders*)
> 
> The next chapter will probably be a Jon POV, but it's possible that it will be a Bran or a Davos POV... or someone else altogether. There are too many choices!
> 
> As always, feedback = <3.


	4. Jon I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments! I may take forever and a day to respond, but that doesn't mean that they aren't treasured.
> 
> In the wake of Bran's revelation, Jon is (understandably) in Angst and Brood™ mode, so be forewarned: this is a _very_ internal monologue heavy chapter.

* * *

 

The way through the crypts grew darker and darker, and all the while, the old kings sat on their stone thrones, judging him. He could feel their heavy gazes against his back as he limped past.

 _You are no Stark_ , they told him.  _This is not your place. Leave._

He desired nothing more than to heed their words, but he could not make his feet turn in the proper direction. Instead, he was drawn onwards till he was at the statue of his Aunt Lyanna.

Unlike the rest, she did not warn him away. 

She reached out to him with a hand of stone. Just as it met his cheek, it turned to flesh—cold and pale and clammy, but flesh all the same.

A cold wind then swept through the crypts, pimpling his skin. He could hear Yggrite’s voice in the distance:

_"They had been in Winterfell all the time, hiding with the dead beneath the castle. The maid loved Bael so dearly she bore him a son…”_

He reached out to his aunt in return, but before he could touch her hand, he heard the scrape of stone on stone.

When he turned to find the source, he saw that the vaults were opening, one after another. Dead kings came tumbling out of cold black graves, bony hands prying rusted swords from the hands of their stone counterparts. 

A drum sounded somewhere in the levels below… or was that his heartbeat?

_Win-ter-fell, Win-ter-fell, Win-ter-fell._

_Winter-fell. Winter-fell._

_Fell-fell-fell-fell-fell._  

Then the dim light went out entirely, leaving him alone in the pitch black with the dead.

….

….

….

Jon woke with a gasp.

It had been the dream again.

He didn’t even remember falling asleep last night. After he’d spoken with Bran and Sam, he’d gone to his own chambers and barred the door, ignoring everyone who tried to speak with him… even Arya.

 _I know the truth now_ , he told whatever it was that kept sending the dream to him.  _You can stop it._

The fire in the hearth had burnt itself out while he’d slept, and with his door barred, the servants hadn’t been able to relight it this morning. Little wonder there had been a cold wind in his dream.

But even though the hearth was now naught but cold grey ash, he could still see the flames licking at the logs in his mind’s eye, dancing and unfurling ever upwards into smoke.

When the Mad King had strangled one Stark before his throne and burnt another alive in a gruesome parody of trial by combat, had he watched them die with the same sort of sick fascination Jon had watched the kindling in his hearth burn?

 _Targaryen_.

_I have that madness in me too._

He’d looked a dragon in the eye and thought it a force of nature. Mingled awe and dread given solid form. Power. 

He’d felt a strange connection to it. A _pull_. It had called to something in him, and that something had longed to call back.

…A connection, come to think of it, that he’d felt with more than just one dragon.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow,_  Ygritte’s voice laughed in his ear.

He’d known he shouldn’t have gone to Daenerys’ bed that first night and he’d known it every time afterwards. She might not see what they did together as dishonoring them both, but he knew better.

Each time he’d sworn to himself that  _this_  time would be the last, and each time he’d known it for a lie.

She was glorious and fearsome and wanted  _him_  as much as he wanted her, and he? He was weak.

Weak and depraved, as he’d always been.

Fire of a different sort now flickered before his eyes, burnt orange and gold, crimson and russet—ripple after ripple of molten copper swaying to and fro in an invisible breeze.

Bile rose in his throat, hot and sour.

 _I suppose I really_ am  _a Targaryen._

 _“Somehow, I feel like I’ve always known you, Jon Snow,”_  Daenerys had told him one evening in her cabin as she’d straddled him.  _“Perhaps we were always meant to end up here. Together.”_

 _“I don’t believe in fate or prophecies,”_ Jon had said.

 _“You don’t think it’s romantic, fate bringing us together?”_ she had asked with a slight pout.  _“Mayhap it’s the world’s way of repaying us for all we’ve suffered.”_  

 _“I don’t think the world works that way,”_  he’d said, palming one of her breasts. He’d teased the nipple with his fingers, causing her to gasp and buck her hips against his, and the inferno in his veins had surged in response.  _“The world doesn’t care if we suffer or not. That’s why it’s up to us to care for each other.”_

He’d kissed her then and lost himself in her violet eyes and in her heat.

Because for all that she looked a snow maiden, Daenerys Stormborn was fire incarnate. You only had to look into her eyes to see it. 

He’d been so  _cold_  since the Red Woman had brought him back. He only felt fully alive when he was fighting or fucking, and sleeping with Daenerys was a bit of both.

It was dangerous in the best of ways, setting his blood to pumping. 

He’d not felt so alive since he’d slammed Littlefinger up against the wall in the crypts and threatened to end his pathetic life.

It was selfish, what he was doing with Daenerys, and Jon knew it. She deserved better. She deserved a man whose heart wasn’t as damaged as his own; a man who'd fall in love with her with no hesitation or effort; who'd give her the whole of his heart rather than just the bits and scraps Jon could salvage.

There was much to love about Daenerys Targaryen. She was beautiful, aye, but she had a good heart too, and a strong will. And if she was impetuous and temperamental, well, that was part of her charm, wasn't it? She was very much her own woman, and Jon respected that, even if it sometimes made him wish she didn’t have access to bloody  _dragons_.

 _“They’re not beasts to me. No matter how big they get or how terrifying to everyone else, they’re my children,”_  Daenerys had said.

Jon could understand that, to a degree. Though large and fierce and wild, Ghost was no mere beast to him… he was part of his very being. 

But despite that strange, primordial connection he’d felt to the dragons—not so strange, he supposed, now that he knew the truth—he had never once looked upon them as anything other than beasts.

Magnificent beasts, to be sure, but beasts all the same.

 _“Sometimes strength is terrible,”_  Daenerys’ voice murmured in his memory.

Olly's face, blue and bloated in death, floated into his mind, as did the charred remains of Princess Shireen's toy stag in Ser Davos' trembling hands. Bodies on the field after battle, now nothing more than rotting sacks of meat. The Night King's host, cold and sharp and glittering. 

He couldn’t disagree. 

How would Daenerys take the news of his parentage? Would she be glad to have found more family? Disgusted to learn that she'd lain with her own nephew? Worried that he might try to take the throne from her? Angry with him for his seeming deception?

(None of it had been intentional, of course, but why should she believe him?)

Why had Father never  _told_   _him_?

 _…No, not Father…_ Uncle _. Was_ any _of it real? Or has my whole life been a lie?_

_I thought I was tainted because of my bastard blood; that I would always have to fight against my inborn depravities—against the world that told me it was so._

_But I was never a bastard at all, was I?_

_No, those moments of weakness were the fault of the_ Targaryen _in me._

Jon let out a bitter snort.

 _And now that I know the truth… I think I’d rather be a bastard again if it meant I could still be_ Ned Stark’s  _bastard._

Eddard Stark, at least, had been the best of men. Jon could not say the same of Rhaegar Targaryen, let alone  _Aerys_ Targaryen, who had been a monster as terrible as any beyond the Wall.

Had his fath—uncle watched him for signs of madness throughout his childhood, preparing himself to put Jon down if need be to prevent another Aerys?

And would it be better if he hadn’t… or if he had? What if he had been  _right_  to do so?

Yohn Royce’s words from months ago echoed in his mind:  _A Targaryen cannot be trusted._

He began to laugh and laugh, and soon found he could not stop, even as the laughter turned to tears.

 _What if I go as mad as Aerys and start killing my subjects? Who can I trust to stop me if it should come to it, now that Father and Robb are gone?_  

Arya was certainly physically capable of it, but he knew better than to think she would be able to follow through when he was the target. Not unless more had changed between them with this revelation than he’d thought.

Bran… wasn't  _Bran_  right now, and the Three-Eyed Raven wouldn’t care what Jon did as long as he didn’t side with the Night King.

As for Daenerys… she was a genuine possibility. But depending on the form his madness took, she might side  _with_  him… assuming she hadn’t already disposed of him for his birth rather than his mental state.

Tyrion, then, perhaps? But Tyrion was sworn to Daenerys.

Tormund might be willing, but it wouldn't fair to ask such a thing of him. The tensions between the Free Folk and the Northerners would take a turn for the worse if one was assassinated by the other... and Jon would no longer be around to protect them.

At last, he reluctantly came to the name he had been avoiding: Sansa.

If Arya had learned the truth of his heritage, surely she had too. But unlike Arya, she had not tried to speak with him since then… not once. 

 _Does she resent me for stealing her birthright?_   _Is she afraid that my Targaryen blood might manifest itself somehow? Or does she simply no longer care for me now that she knows we were never truly brother and sister?_

His stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought.

Unlike Arya, she had no fond sisterly memories to fall back on, no history of considering herself his sister. 

Contrary to what Sansa believed, she had never been intentionally cruel to him when they were children… it wasn’t her way. He’d been far too below her for her to vent her spleen at him; a lady was always gracious to her lessers. But she had followed her mother’s example and kept her distance from him, and her courtesies had been distant too—all her way of letting him know where he stood with her. He was her bastard half-brother, after all, not one of her  _true_  brothers.

That didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt, but he had understood. Sansa had always been destined to be a grand lady or a queen, and they’d all known it, her not least of all. Sansa belonged in the songs she so loved and Jon… Jon hadn’t. That had naturally put him on the periphery of her orderly little world.

Of course, he'd always felt a bit like an imposter next to Sansa, even after she'd accepted him as a Stark. It wasn't so much that she reminded him of her lady mother, though she did on occasion, but more that she was so… so  _polished_. So clearly born and bred for all of this in a way he was not. 

But then, he wasn’t a Stark, was he? He wasn’t even a Stark bastard.

He was a Targaryen.

Yes, if it came to it, Sansa was his best chance. She'd not like it, but she'd do what she had to all the same. She knew better than anyone here the dangers of a mad monarch. And Joffrey had only been the product of  _one_  generation of incestuous unions…

It was true, Sansa wasn’t capable of taking him down herself, but she  _could_  give the order—and given the choice between a Stark and a Targaryen, the North would side with her every time. Perhaps, if they were lucky, some Northman would take the initiative to remove or kill Jon of his own accord and save her the trouble and guilt.

 _…Oh gods._   _The North._

He reached for the remaining flagon of ale on the table—he’d emptied several the previous night—and took a long draught.

Somehow, in all this mess, that particular part of the equation had slipped his mind. What should he do? This revelation was the  _last_  thing they needed right now, not when they needed a united North to fight the Night King. 

Yet could he lie to the very people he had sworn to protect even if it  _was_  for their protection? They had chosen him as their king under false pretenses; didn’t they deserve to know that? They had placed their trust in him… didn’t they deserve to have that trust repaid?

He knew what Arya and Sansa would say—failing to contradict people’s assumptions wasn’t the same thing as lying to them. But a lie by omission was still a lie… and secrets, in his experience, had a nasty habit of backfiring.

He let out a hollow bark of laughter.

A nasty habit of backfiring, indeed.

He’d usurped his siblings—his  _cousins_ —even more than he’d initially believed. If she’d had a grave, Lady Catelyn would doubtless be rolling over in it. 

He immediately felt guilty for the thought, but it was true all the same.

_If Father had told her the truth, would she still have hated and feared me so? Or would she have feared and hated me all the more, knowing what danger my presence put her children in?_

_Perhaps she might have found it in her heart to love her goodsister’s son. Perhaps she would have convinced Father to send me away. I suppose I’ll never know now._

As with so many other things. What had his mother been like?

Father hadn’t often spoken of his sister; Jon had assumed it was too painful a subject. From what he remembered, she’d sounded a lot like Arya—headstrong and kind-hearted, with dark hair and grey eyes, and skilled both on a horse and with a sword. A true daughter of the North.

A highborn lady any child might be proud to call mother.

But she’d run away with a married man… the crown prince, at that. Had his mother truly loved Rhaegar Targaryen so much as to forget everything she owed her family?

 _Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty,_  old Maester Aemon’s voice whispered in his mind, voice dry and dusty and paper-thin _. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love._   _That is our great glory and our great tragedy._

Bran had said that his mother had gone willingly with his father… but he had not said whether she had  _stayed_  with him willingly. Jon did not know which scenario he would prefer: that she had had the freedom to choose her own destiny, but had selfishly chosen to ignore the deaths of her father and elder brother and the entire war that she had unintentionally helped to ignite; or that she had been held prisoner by the man she had once loved enough to wed.

_Did you want me, Mother? Did you love me?_

_What did you plan on doing if you had survived?_

_And why in the name of all the gods did you name me_ Aegon _? …Or was it Rhaegar who chose the name?_

He was overflowing with questions that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answers to.

Just when he’d thought he  _finally_  knew his place, the rug had been ripped out from under his feet yet again.

 _All I ever wanted was to make you proud, Father. To show the world that I could be as good as any trueborn son. …_ _All I ever wanted was to be a Stark for true. But that was a child's dream, and now it's more impossible than ever._

He got to his feet and began to pace the room, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

 _I understand why you had to hide the truth from the world, but why couldn't you tell_ me _? Once you knew the King was coming to Winterfell, you could have told me. You_ should _have told me. So why didn't you?_

 _What else did you lie about?_   _Did you ever think of me as a son at all?_

A pounding on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“I gave you your time,” Arya called through. “But now we need to talk.”

Reluctantly, he opened the door and gestured her in without a word. He knew better than to think she’d leave him alone a second time.

Arya wrinkled her nose when she turned around from re-bolting the door.

“Seven hells, it  _reeks_  in here,” she said. "And it's cold _._ Why’d you let the fire go out?"

“Fell asleep,” he answered with a shrug.

She rolled her eyes and set about rekindling it with a flint and steel from the pouch on her belt.

He stood back and let her. Arya found it easier to talk about difficult things when she had a physical task to do. Peculiarly enough, that was something she had in common with her sister, as he’d discovered himself not too long after he and Sansa had been reunited at Castle Black. Arya preferred throwing pebbles or tending to her weapons over sewing and knitting, but the principle remained the same.

For someone who’d been so insistent on speaking to him, Arya was awfully quiet as she took a piece of charred punk wood and some dry kindling from the nearby scuttle. If he hadn’t known better, he'd have thought she wanted to have this conversation as little as he did.

When the silence hanging between them finally became too much, he spoke.

“So, Bran told you?”

“About your parents?” Arya asked, carefully cupping the spark she’d just lit and folding a bit of kindling around it. She fanned the slowly smoking bundle till it burst into flame, then placed it amidst the hearth logs till they caught fire.

Realizing that she would say no more until he answered her, he said, “Aye.”

“I don’t care,” Arya said, finally looking up at him, eyes as fierce as her tone. “You’re still my brother.”

This statement soothed that small piece of him that had wondered (feared) otherwise.

“And you’ll always be my sister. But… this changes things.”

“How?” Arya asked truculently.

“I don’t have a right to this crown. I  _never_  had a right to it. I was given this position because of a  _lie_ —”

Arya huffed, hands going to her hips.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “The lords chose you as their king because you took back Winterfell. That hasn’t changed, has it? You were still raised one of us. You’ve even still got the same amount of Stark blood in your veins… and don’t you dare say it doesn’t count just because it’s from your mother instead of your father.”

“It isn’t that it doesn’t count, it’s that it doesn’t count the same way. That’s none of my doing, little sister—that’s the  _world_ , and you know it. None of the lords will want a, a _Targaryen_ —” he forced the word out through numb lips, still half-unbelieving—“as Warden of the North, let alone as its former  _king_.”

“So don’t tell them,” Arya said, her tone suggesting that it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“They deserve to know,” he said. “And they deserve to hear it from me rather than from someone like Littlefinger. …Speaking of which, where is the weasel?”

Arya looked at him in clear confusion.

“He’s dead. Didn’t you get Sansa’s raven?”

_…Dead?_

“Obviously not,” Jon said, tamping back his temper. It wasn’t  _Arya’s_  fault the raven had never arrived.

“Well, he is.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “How?” 

“I killed him.”

Blood rushed in his ears as he rose to his feet.

“What did that piece of shit  _do_? If he so much as—”

Perhaps it was just as well that Arya interrupted him. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been about to say.

“He betrayed Father to the Gold Cloaks in King’s Landing,” Arya said, voice cold enough to freeze him in his place. “Then he convinced Joffrey to kill Father instead of letting him take the Black.”

“What?” Jon asked.

His voice was dangerously soft even to his own ears.

Arya nodded in seeming satisfaction at his reaction.

“He’s also the one who started the war,” she said. “Apparently Aunt Lysa killed Jon Arryn on his command.”

Jon let out a quiet curse and pounded his fist against the table, which rattled the flagon badly enough to spill what little ale remained in it all over the varnished wood.

“There was more, but those were the most important charges,” Arya said. He cocked a head in silent question, and she elaborated, saying, “There was a trial before all the lords. And then there was an  _execution_  before all the lords.”

A surge of savage satisfaction ran through him at the thought, but the wolf’s blood still boiled in his veins—or was it the dragon’s blood?—with the wish that he could have taken Littlefinger’s head himself.

“Thus always to all traitors to House Stark,” Arya added with a smirk he could only describe as vicious. “He got what was coming to him… just like the Boltons and the Freys.”

He nodded in agreement, but something twisted uneasily in his gut at her words.

 _Who killed all the Frey men at the Twins? Because that wasn't an execution... it was a_ slaughter _._

As he looked at his sister's uncharacteristically cold eyes, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

More than that, though, Arya's words brought to mind a crudely carved wooden sign in the snow and knives in the dark.

 _Traitor_.

Was he a traitor? 

 _The North can call me ‘traitor’ a hundred thousand times if it means it will survive the War to come._   _If it means Arya and Bran and Sansa will survive the War to come._

“Speaking of traitors…” Arya began.

 _Here it comes_ , he thought, heart sinking. He was surprised it had taken her this long to berate him for giving Daenerys the North. 

“…Why do the Karstarks and the Umbers still hold their lands and titles?” Arya asked, voice sharp. “Sansa told me it had to do with  _politics_  and people needing to ‘work _together_  in these  _difficult_  times’, but…”

The disgusted expression on her face told him what she thought of  _that_.

He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved at this line of questioning or not. And… Sansa had  _defended_  his decision to Arya? That was… unexpected.

“Because the Karstarks and the Umbers who betrayed us  _died on the field of battle_ ,” he said, exasperation shading his tone more than he had intended. “Alys Karstark and Ned Umber had nothing to do with their guardians’ treachery.”

“Or so they claim,” Arya scoffed.

“I’ve already had this argument with Sansa, Arya. I won’t punish a child for the sins of the father and that’s final.”

Something wry lurked at the corner of Arya’s mouth as he spoke.

“I can see why the lords like you,” she said. “You’re just like Father.”

That was a high compliment, especially coming from the girl who had idolized him so back when they were children.

“Thank you, Arya.”

“Father is  _dead_. I won’t let you die too.”

There was nothing he could say to that, so he gathered her into his arms instead. She hugged him back the way she did everything else—with all her heart.

_I’ve missed this._

When at last they drew apart, Arya said, “I want you to tell me  _everything_.”

“…About?”

“What happened since you first left for the Wall. But first, what happened since you left for  _Dragonstone_.”

Ah yes, there was the subject he'd been dreading. There were  _definitely_  some harsh words in his near future.

He winced, even as he said, “That could take a while.”

Arya raised an eyebrow.

“Then you’d best get started,” she said coolly.

And so he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to those of you who were hoping for UCL!Jon, but this is my compromise between what I'm fairly certain was D&D's authorial intent (Jon + Dany = Burning Passion & True Love™) and what I personally saw onscreen (which… erm, _wasn't_ that).
> 
> As always, feedback is highly appreciated!


	5. Davos I

It was dusk and Davos Seaworth hadn’t seen Jon Snow for a full day now. More to the point, no one from _Daenerys Targaryen’s_ party had seen Jon Snow for a full day now either. Davos might be nothing more than an upjumped smuggler, but even he knew that was considered poor hospitality… especially where royalty was concerned.

As it was, if Davos had to make nice with the Lannister dwarf yet _again_ today just because Jon Snow didn’t feel like showing his face for supper, he was going to have words with the man, king or no.

That was another thing that was still in the air.

 _Was_ Jon Snow still King of the North? He’d announced to everyone at the Dragon Pit in King’s Landing that he’d bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, but he had yet to make any such announcement here.

It made Davos antsy. He could tell it was making Lady Sansa Stark’s skin itch too, for all she acted like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth around Queen Daenerys and her advisors.

For once, he couldn’t blame her for the deception. After all, wasn’t he playing up his harmless, genial image amongst them too?

_Better to ape the fool or to be a coward for a minute than dead the rest of your life._

A man’d have to be mad to make an enemy of someone with _dragons_ … especially when they needed those dragons to survive the coming War.

Besides, the fact that Jon hadn’t yet announced to his people that he’d pledged the North to Queen Daenerys was making Queen Daenerys and _her_ advisors antsy too.

With tensions mounting on every side, it was a perfect explosion waiting to happen. All it would take would be a single spark… 

And if Davos knew one thing for certain, it was that there was _always_ a spark.

 

 

Jon Snow did not arrive at supper. And Davos _was_ seated next to Tyrion Lannister at the High Table… _again_. 

He knew it was meant to be a mark of respect, as they were both Hands to their respective rulers, but being forced to make small talk with the man who’d killed his Matthos was an honor he could have done without. Especially since it appeared to be a _recurring_ honor.

He couldn’t tell if Lady Stark—for surely it was she who’d made the seating arrangements—didn’t know that the halfman had killed his son, or if she simply didn’t care. 

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end.

“Winterfell is much changed since I was here last,” Tyrion Lannister remarked. 

“Oh?” Davos asked.

“Mmm,” Lannister said and took a deep swig of wine. When he’d swallowed it, he added, “It’s much colder. The library is depleted. And there are _far_ more wildlings in it. I have to admit, I’m surprised that the Northern lords have accepted them.”

“Winter is here,” Davos said. “The lords know they’ve bigger enemies than the wildlings… and they know that leaving the wildlings without aid isn’t an option.”

Lannister hummed thoughtfully.

“It’s funny, the things people will accept in dire circumstances, isn’t it?” he mused aloud, voice casual. “Rationing; training the fairer sex to fight; alliances with those they might have previously considered enemies…”

Davos stared at him. 

“I’m a simple fellow,” he said slowly, keeping his tone affable. “Never did learn how to make or decipher fancy speech in my years as a smuggler. So if there’s something you want to tell me, you’re best off just saying it.”

Lannister laughed.

“Fair enough,” he said. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he continued. “Does Jon Snow intend to proclaim his fealty to our queen to his people anytime soon?”

 _How should I fucking know?_ _Of late, he’s not talked to_ any _of us._

All he said aloud, however, was, “Why do you ask?” 

“Because,” Lannister said, “if he isn’t planning on doing so, I want to know _why_. I can’t fix a problem I don’t know about.”

“That’s… reasonable,” Davos said.

“Yes, that’s me, Tyrion Lannister the Reasonable, the first of his name,” the Imp proclaimed with a snort, lifting his goblet as though making a toast to himself before quaffing the wine remaining in it. “Gods, my father must be rolling over in his grave.”

Davos forced a smile and took a bite of roasted parsnips.

“This really is shit wine, you know,” Lannister added in a confiding tone even as he poured himself another goblet’s worth.

Davos knew.

 _I was a_ smuggler _, you smug little gobshite. You’re not the only one who knows his wines and liquors._  

But that was Tyrion Lannister in a nutshell, wasn’t it? He was a decent enough sort—Davos suspected he might even have liked the man had circumstances been different—but he had an irritating tendency to assume that he knew everything better than everyone else.

Of course, as irritating as it was, it was also useful; it meant he often underestimated folks, certain in his own judgment of their capabilities.

That thought was all Davos needed to make the false smile sit more naturally on his face.

“Just wait til you taste the _ale_ ,” he told Lannister with a smirk.

That was when all hells broke loose. 

A tall, red-bearded man who Davos didn’t recognize leapt to his feet from one of the tables below.

“Just who are you calling a traitor?” he growled.

“ _You_ , my lord,” the stocky man seated across from him spat, also getting to his feet. Davos recognized him as Hugo Wull, chieftain of the most powerful of the Northern mountain clans. The Wulls had joined with Stannis for a time, but it had always been obvious that they saw Stannis as a temporary placeholder for a Stark. “I name _you_ traitor. You fought against the Starks at the Battle for Winterfell. You don’t deserve to sit here with the rest o’ us—not when so many _good_ men are buried ten feet under from that selfsame fight.” 

“I wasn’t _at_ that damned battle—”

“Oho! An’ a liar too!”

“Impugn my honor one more time, I dare you!”

“Honor? What hon—”

Wull broke off with a scream as a dagger made its way through his hand.

“I’ll get you for that, you fookin’ bast—”

Before Davos could think of a strategy suited to their setting, Lady Stark had stood. 

“ _Enough_ ,” she said, voice clear and sharp as a whip crack. “ _What_ is the meaning of this, my lords?”

By her side, Ghost bared his teeth in a silent growl, and the hall fell silent.

“Must I repeat myself?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

The red-bearded man made a slight bow and said, “My lady, this man is spreading lies and slander. He—”

“ _I’m_ the one spreading lies?” the Wull scoffed. “ _You_ —” 

“Silence, Lord Wull,” Lady Stark said. “Let Lord Elric speak his piece. You shall have your turn shortly.”

The man scowled, but bowed his head in submission.

“You were saying, my lord?”

“Aye, my lady. This so-called _lord_ has seen fit to taunt me about mine relatives’ former treachery and to spread lies about mine own involvement in their plots. Such insult cannot be borne. The King himself pardoned the Karstarks; who is _Lord_ Wull to contradict such a decree?”

Lady Stark nodded solemnly.

“And you, Lord Wull?” she asked. “What have you to say for yourself?”

“That bastard of a Karstark—beggin’ your pardon, my lady—has the nerve to sit in this hall like he didn’t kill dozens of my kinfolk during the Battle for Winterfell. To eat and drink and laugh like he never betrayed his liege lord, while men far better than him lie fallow in the ground. When I tried to call him out, he stabbed me at table rather than face me in a fair fight.”

“This is a serious charge, my lord. Have you any proof?”

“Any proof? Did you not witness his craven act just now?” 

“I speak of your claim that Lord Elric fought for the Boltons.”

“Aye! Several of my men will vouch for it,” he said, scowling fiercely, “Though far more _would_ … were they still among the living.”

Lady Stark frowned thoughtfully, but Davos had since regained his senses and knew he must act swiftly.

Lady Stark and Lady Arya, somewhat understandably, held a grudge against those who had allied with the Boltons. However, King Jon _had_ implicitly pardoned the entirety of House Karstark all those months back.

As Hand of the King, Davos could not let Lady Stark undermine the King’s authority… and even less so in front of Queen Daenerys and her advisors.

He rose to his feet.

“This is a matter for the Crown to decide,” Davos said in a carrying voice.

Lady Stark froze for the barest fraction of a second, then nodded in his direction. 

“I agree entirely, Lord Seaworth,” she said smoothly. “Guards, take both of these gentlemen to the cells for the nonce to await judgment. And send a maester to Lord Wull, will you? I should hate for his wound to become infected.”

She turned now to the two men and added, “My lords, I pray you use this time to cool your heels.”

Several Stark guards had broken away from the wall upon her orders and now escorted the still-protesting lords out of the hall.

Davos scanned the hall to see if any other men seemed on the verge of violence, but he saw no more resentment there than usual. At the High Table, on the other hand…

Lady Arya looked half-murderous from where she sat, sandwiched in between her siblings.

_Probably hoped she’d get to spill that Karstark’s blood._

She wasn’t his main concern, though—that honor was reserved for Queen Daenerys, whose eyes were sharp and whose brow bore a faint frown.

Somehow Davos doubted it was the violence itself that had prompted this reaction.

In fact, as he followed her gaze to Lady Stark, he had a sinking suspicion Queen Daenerys felt it was  _her_ authority that had been usurped just now, never mind that the King hadn’t yet announced his demotion in status to the North, or that Lady Stark hadn’t specified _whose_ judgment the lords were to await, or even the fact that the Queen was a _guest_ in Winterfell. 

He groaned internally.

Davos liked Daenerys Targaryen, truly he did. With her blunt honesty, impatience for ceremony, formidable will, and desire to do right by the smallfolk, she reminded him of Stannis as he had been; Stannis as he _could_ have been.

(Thinking the name was painful, but if he'd learnt one thing, it was that the past never stayed buried.) 

Unfortunately, Daenerys had Stannis’ weaknesses as well: a certain inflexibility of thought; a formidable will; and a touchy, all-consuming insistence on receiving what she felt was her due by birth.

It amused him, in a pained way, to imagine what either of the rulers would have said to being compared to the other.

He had faith that Queen Daenerys wouldn’t fall prey to Stannis’ fate—Lady Missandei’s tale of the Queen’s willingness to chain her dragons after the death of a peasant child had come as a relief on that front—but that didn’t mean he enjoyed watching her flirt with that darkness, either.

Had he thought it would do any good, he would have gritted his teeth and talked to Tyrion Lannister about his unease, but he didn’t see the point as of yet. Like as not, the halfman would just laugh it off, then turn the subject back around to Jon Snow’s absence again.

That was the _last_ thing they needed right now.

 _Jon_ , he thought sourly, _had best have a bloody good excuse for this._

 

  

After supper, Davos went in search of his missing king.

He pounded on Jon’s door to no avail and was just getting ready to give up when someone spoke from behind, startling him.

“He’s in the Godswood,” Arya Stark said from where she leaned against the wall.

“Sorry?”

“You’re looking for Jon, right?” Lady Arya said, tone bored. “He’s in the Godswood.”

“Ah. Thank you, milady.”

“Not a lady,” Lady Arya huffed, rolling her eyes.

“As you say,” Davos said, bowing his head and silently adding ‘milady’.

Noblefolk were strange, even the best of them. Perhaps _especially_ the best of them. He’d learnt it was best to just indulge their peculiarities.

The corridors were busier than they’d been when he’d left for Dragonstone some months back. Servants bustled this way and that, hauling buckets of water and stacks of linens and logs, while guards paced their patrol routes. And it wasn’t just the usual workingmen and women who were about—Davos encountered and bowed to no fewer than nine lords of importance on his way out of the Great Keep and towards the Godswood. 

Though it was dark, voices still drifted from the direction of the courtyard—soldiers, from the sound of it. Between the Knights of the Vale, the Unsullied, and fighters from all across the North, they certainly didn’t lack for men.

_It’s not enough, though. Not to defeat the Dead._

He wasn’t exactly pleased about the Dothraki horde headed their way—a recipe for disaster, if he’d ever heard one—but at least they’d bulk their army’s numbers.

_Enough to give us a fighting chance, mayhap._

Even more so once the Lannister forces arrived.

_Thank the Gods Cersei Lannister saw reason, for once in her benighted life._

At last, he reached the gate, tall and made of cold iron. Though old, it was well-greased and did not creak when he pushed it open and stepped through.

The Godswood was enveloped in a hush that felt unnatural after the commotion of the rest of the castle. Drifts of snow swallowed all sound, muffling even his footsteps as he moved forward.

Then again, it wasn’t just the silence that made this place feel eerie… it was the dense clusterings of sentinels and oaks and ironwoods, wild and ancient. It was that bloody weirwood Heart Tree, its bark pale as death, leaves like a thousand blood-stained handprints. It was the Heart Tree’s expression, carved eyes eternally weeping blood-red sap; eternally _watching_.

Davos shivered, drawing his cloak closer. 

When a gust of wind blew through the trees, the rustle of their braches and leaves sounded like whispers.

…actually, those _were_ whispers. He recognized Jon Snow’s sullen voice.

“—certainly more of a Stark than me, at any rate,” Jon was saying.

Davos froze, not wanting to interrupt what sounded to be a rather personal conversation.

“Jon…”

That was Lady Stark.

“You once told me I was a Stark to you,” Jon said. “Do you regret that now?” 

There were layers to this conversation, but without any of the specifics, he could only guess at them.

“You _are_ a Stark, Jon. Your last name can’t change that any more than mine can,” Lady Stark said firmly. “Father raised you. Winterfell is in your blood and bones. Bran is still your brother; Arya will always be your sister.”

Silence.

When Jon finally replied, his voice was low and rough.

“…And you? What am I to you, Sansa Stark?” 

The air was thick with a tension Davos didn’t care to analyze.

“You’re... you're  _Jon_. You're my family.”

“Aye, but what type?”

An infinitesimal pause, then:

“Does it really matter?” she asked, voice cool. “Family is family. And you’re going to marry the dragon queen anyway.”

“…What? Where'd you get _that_  idea?”

“When she learns the truth, she’ll have two options: kill you or marry you. And considering that she _likes_ you—and that she’d have an uprising on her hands if she killed the North’s king—”

_The truth?_

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“A king. As you’ve been so fond of reminding me, I _bent the knee_.”

Davos chose this moment to step forward and clear his throat.

Both parties whirled around to meet him in surprise. Lady Stark looked displeased for a hair’s breadth before she schooled her face back to blankness, but Jon Snow looked relieved at the reprieve. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, my lady,” he said with a slight bow. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions. I was seated by Lord Lannister tonight at supper, and he—”

Lady Stark grimaced.

“—Wanted to know where Jon was and when he’s going to announce his decision to the North?” she asked coolly.

“Er, yes,” Davos said, resisting the urge to shuffle his feet.

Jon’s long, solemn face looked even more dour than usual.

“I should’ve made an announcement when we first arrived at Winterfell,” he said.

Lady Stark pursed her lips and said, “And as I told you before you left, you have to _talk to your Small Council_ before you make these sorts of proclamations. And before _that_ , you need to talk to your Hand and myself so we can privately resolve any disagreements we might have.”

Davos blinked in surprise. For all that he was Hand, he hadn’t thought she’d include him in the list of people Jon needed to consult.

“Well, here we are,” Jon said, opening his arms expansively. “The three of us.”

Unspoken: _So let’s talk_.

Lady Stark moistened her lips.

“Not out here,” she said. “If Ser Davos could overhear us, _anyone_ could overhear us.”

“ _You’re_ the one who started this conversation in the Godswood, my lady,” Jon said.

She huffed out a sigh, reminding Davos irresistibly of her younger sister for a moment.

“Yes, and I was foolish. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Since when has any of this been about what I want?” he retorted.

_Seven save me, but they’re both in a mood._

“Have you a better location in mind, my lady?” Davos asked.

“The Lord’s chambers have the best security,” she said, brow faintly furrowed. “Let’s meet there in… say, two hours?”

Jon’s eyes left Davos and returned to Lady Stark, where the two of them seemed to engage a silent conversation that Davos couldn’t follow. Eventually, Jon’s lips tightened and he nodded once in curt agreement.

_Right. No one rush to explain anything to the lowborn._

“Till then,” Davos said, bowing and backing away.

Something here was fishier than a quayside market. If Davos had his way, he’d soon get to the bottom of it. 

He could only hope it wouldn’t leave him floating belly up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like so many other characters on the show, Davos deserves better than what he's been given, IMO. While there's nothing inherently wrong with him acting as #Dadvos to Jon, I wish the writers would remember that there's more to him than just folksy wisdom, and that he's a full person outside of Jon rather than one of his appendages; the title of Hand is _metaphorical_ , not literal. (Also, the transference of Davos' loyalty from Stannis to Jon pretty much came out of _nowhere_ in Season 6, but that's another rant for another day lol.)
> 
> While I love Davos and I love Sansa and enjoy fics that have them acting like BFFs, I don't get that vibe from them on the show right now, particularly not from Davos re: Sansa. I think he respects her, but I don't think he necessarily trusts her... not since she held back information about the Knights of the Vale in Season 6, at any rate. Honestly, I can't blame him; I like Sansa and headcanon reasons for her actions, but in his shoes, I'm not sure that I'd trust her either. Besides, I get the impression that Davos prefers straight talkers like Jon and Brienne over politicians anyway. As for Dany, I'm of two minds as to whether Davos genuinely likes her on the show or not, but I've decided to play his seeming appreciation for her straight for this particular fic.
> 
> By the way, if you're also reading my SW fic, TNOF, please know that it isn't abandoned! I'm just... stuck right now. _Very_ stuck. *grumbles*
> 
> If you have the spoons to do so, please feed the author with comments! I may take forever and a day to respond, but know that any and all feedback of yours is deeply appreciated.


	6. Interlude: The Master of Whispers

“Tell me true,” Tyrion said lazily, setting down his goblet, “What  _were_  your initial plans, when good King Robert died? And don’t insult me by pretending you only ever wanted to serve the Baratheons… and by Baratheons, of course, I mean my  _dear_  family.” 

In the background, the hearth fire crackled and popped, its ruddy glow limning the two conspirators’ figures in the dim room.

“What makes you think I had any other plans?” Varys asked, raising an eyebrow and folding his hands inside his wide silken sleeves.

Tyrion only raised an eyebrow in reply.

_Ah._

“And why should I tell you?” Varys asked.

“Well, your plans went to shit, didn’t they, or you wouldn’t be here with me,” Tyrion said, lips quirking upwards in a half-smile. “And I’m sure you’re dying to share how very clever they were.”

He offered Varys a cup of wine, which he refused wordlessly.

“Your loss,” Tyrion said, and poured the wine into his own goblet before downing it.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Varys said with a smile that he knew looked as patently insincere as it truly was.

“Well?” Tyrion prompted. “I’d hate for you to become a wight before you had a chance to gloat. If you’re worried about eavesdroppers, don’t be… the Starks have always had truly  _terrible_  surveillance. Spycraft isn’t their strength.”

_Perhaps once, but is that still true?_

All he said aloud, however, was, “My dear Lannister, whatever makes you think I’d tell you the truth?”

“All men want an audience,” Tyrion said. “Besides, we’re friends, you and I. And I don’t tell friends’ secrets.”

Varys let out a faint huff of defeat.

“There might have been another candidate for the throne at one point,” he admitted at last, carefully choosing his words. “Unfortunately, one cannot foresee or defend against an outbreak of Greyscale the way one can a human opponent.”

 _If I ever get my hands on the_ idiot _who brought the plague into the city…_

“He died of it, then?”

“Would I be here now otherwise?” 

“You might have shifted your preferred contender,” Tyrion said.

Varys shrugged expansively, expression neutral.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Either way, it’s no longer relevant. I am now a loyal servant to Her Grace.”

“As are we all.”

Varys let out a hum of acknowledgement and skepticism.

“You disagree?” Tyrion asked.

_You’re a clever man, Tyrion Lannister, but terribly blind sometimes._

“I merely have eyes,” he said.

“Well, would you care to elaborate?” Tyrion asked impatiently.

“Oh, I think I’ve skirted close enough to treason for one night’s talk,” Varys said. “I shan’t press my luck. Besides, I’ve other business to accomplish before I see my bed. As always, it has been a pleasure talking to you, my Lord Hand. No, no—no need to rise… I’ll see myself out.”

 

 

The odd mixture of peoples filling Winterfell, Varys reflected absently, was a blessing. If no one recognized him—in disguise or out of it—they automatically assumed he belonged to one of the other groups; that he was a Wildling or a refugee from a different village or one of the servants from the Vale. 

He’d easily reached his destination tonight without inciting suspicion. It was nice to have the confirmation that his skills were still sharp.      

 

…Not to mention the opportunity to keep his intelligence up to date.

Why, only earlier today, he’d learned that his old friend Petyr Baelish had recently been tried and executed for his crimes against the Houses of Stark and Arryn.

_“Cold as ice, these younger Starks,”_ one of the servants had muttered to another as they scrubbed pots in the kitchen, unaware that she had a wider audience.  _“Mark my words. The younger girl slit Lord Baelish’s throat in the Great Hall without turning a hair. Didn’t even have the decency to take his head outright, or to do it on the ironwood stump for all to see. And the older one didn't object, so it must have all been_  her _idea, little though you'd think it to look at her._ _It_ _didn’t used to be like this, oh no._ _Time was traitors got tried and executed_ properly _.”_

_“Like under the Boltons?”_  the other servant—this one younger and rather prettier, even with the raised scar across her cheek—had scoffed quietly.  _“I’ll take a slit throat in the Great Hall over flayed bodies atop the ramparts and raping in the Godswood any day.”_

_“You weren't here for the Boltons_ _,”_  the first servant had said,  _“or you wouldn't speak of it so flippantly. Still, you’ll hear no arguments from me._ _But things weren’t like this under the previous Lord and Lady Starks, is all I’m saying._ _There were_ rules _before; ways things were done. None of this… this_  greenseeing _business, or executing criminals where folks eat,_ _or switching up who a trial is for midway through._ _Back in the old days, you knew what to expect.”_

_She’d scrubbed harder at the pot, lips pursed tightly._

_Unspoken: you_ didn’t _know what to expect under this new generation of Starks. And it was making this woman nervous._

Varys could sympathize.

Jon Snow was very like his father: as predictable as they came, except for those rare occasions when he wasn't. The other three Starks, however…

In some ways, Lady Sansa was the easiest of the remaining trueborn Starks for him to understand. Though not the same naïve child he'd met in King's Landing all those years ago, she still appeared to put great stock by society's rules—and that was a line of logic with which he was intimately familiar.

Arya Stark, in contrast, seemed to get a thrill out of breaking every rule she stumbled across. Of course, that made her predictable too, in a sense.

And Brandon Stark… Well, he got the sense that young Bran didn't even understand the  _concept_  of rules. Not  _human_  rules, at any rate.

He shivered.

He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Littlefinger’s demise. He’d not liked the man—a sentiment that had been heartily returned—but they’d been colleagues for over a decade. He’d… grown accustomed to him, he supposed. 

Littlefinger had never been true competition in the Great Game, but he’d been an enjoyable opponent all the same. With Tywin Lannister, Doran Martell, Olenna Tyrell, and now Petyr Baelish gone, whom did Varys have left to play against? Cersei Lannister? Tyrion Lannister, in a sense, for all that they were both Daenerys' advisors? The Red Priestess Melisandre, for all that she was now a continent away?

He certainly couldn’t play against this Night King that Jon Snow had so often mentioned…

_Magic_ … could he never escape it?

When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the Red Priestess Melisandre’s ominous words: “ _I will return, dear Spider, one last time. I have to die in this strange country… just like you._ ”

And to think he’d been sleeping so well until then—better than he’d ever thought possible with dragons in Westeros.

It helped that they were on the same side now, of course… at least for the time being.

_When the War is over…_  he promised himself once more, remembering the letter from the Citadel he’d fed to the flames before departing Dragonstone.  _When the War is over._

Pulling himself out of his musings, Varys once more began to explore the rough underground walls with his fingers, looking for any secret openings.

There was something very strange about this place. Nothing he could put a finger on, but enough to make him wary nonetheless.

_Magic_ , that small voice hissed again in his head, but he stifled it.

If the Starks had ever used magic in their crypts, it would have been long ago—decades ago, if not centuries. Lord Eddard had been too solid a man to play with magic, and Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra too interested in Southern politics.

He was perfectly safe here.

…unless young Lord Bran had visited recently.

He shuddered and did his best not to think on it.

Varys had barely seen the boy since they’d arrived and had heard him speak even less, but what little he’d observed was enough. Even Daenerys’ dragons seemed benign by comparison.

Dragons might be powerful, magical beasts, but ultimately they were still beasts with bestial needs; they were easy to understand. Whatever power it was that dwelled within Brandon Stark, on the other hand…

The torches in his area suddenly went out, as though snuffed by an invisible hand, leaving him in pitch-blackness.

Varys wasn't afraid of the dark. He'd routinely traversed the dark tunnels of the Red Keep without a torch to guide him; he'd often trudged through the mire of King's Landing as it slept on a moonless night. Over his years, he'd seen too much to be frightened by a harmless natural phenomenon.

And yet…

_The night is dark and full of terrors_ , the Red Priestess' voice hissed soundlessly in his ear.

He wasn't yet familiar with the Winterfell crypts. It would be far too easy for him to get lost down here amidst the endless, labyrinthine stone walls. Too easy to become just another set of moldering bones amongst the unending parade of hostile Stark dead…

Varys shook away the morbid thought, but turned around nonetheless and headed towards the faint light he could still see in the direction of the crypts' entrance. He'd take a torch from a bracket up there and use it to relight the torches deeper within.

He'd nearly reached the light when he froze. He could hear voices ahead. 

How long had they been here?

“—or was that all a lie?” Jon Snow was saying irritably.

“You  _are_  still Jon Snow,” Lady Sansa said with a sigh. “Learning who your parents were doesn’t change that. But it  _does_  change how the world views you.”

_Parent_ s _?_

Varys pressed himself deeper into the shadows. 

“And 'perception shapes reality'. Yes, yes, so you’ve said. But I still bent the knee; not knowing all the facts at the time doesn’t release me from it. This changes nothing.”

Honorable to a fault, that Jon Snow. Which made his desertion of the Night’s Watch all the stranger.

What details was he missing?

“It changes  _everything_! Don’t you see, Jon? It doesn’t  _matter_. She’ll never believe you don’t want the Iron Throne—and even if she does, you’ll always be a threat to her claim unless she kills or weds you. And no woman gets as far as she has by ignoring threats. If she's at all clever, Daenerys Targaryen is going to want you for her husband. And if  _you're_  at all clever, you'll at least consider it.”

_…Jon Snow a threat to Daenerys’ claim to the Iron Throne?_

_How interesting._

When Jon made no verbal reply, Varys carefully inched into a position where he could see their faces.

“Anyone would think I’d just given you a death sentence," Lady Sansa said tartly. Despite her vocal exasperation, her face was impossible to read. "You certainly liked and trusted her well enough to kneel to her. Why not wed her, combining your claims and our kingdoms? At least  _that_  way the North will have a monarch of its own on the Iron Throne. If we leverage our information properly, we should be able to ensure that you're her equal rather than just a consort.”

_What did she learn from Littlefinger before she sentenced him to death?_

A dozen emotions seemed to flit across Jon Snow's morose face before he spoke.

“I never wanted to be King, but at least when I was King before, I was King  _here_. King’s Landing is…”

“A cesspit of filth and liars. Yes, I know.”

“Then  _what_  makes you think I would want to spend the rest of my days trapped there? Gods be good, I can scarce think of a worse fate.”

“Then what is your plan? Or should I listen to those amongst our bannermen who claim you're doing your thinking with another head altogether these days?”

Jon sputtered. 

“If that was how I thought, don't you think I'd have leapt at the chance to marry her? I would  _never_  give away the North just because of a… a pretty pair of eyes, Sansa. I thought you knew me better than that. That's not fair to me and that's not fair to Daenerys."

"I didn't think you would. Not really. But I had to ask. So what  _would_  you have us do, Jon?" 

"Defeat the Night King before he kills all of us," he snapped.

“Oh.” Lady Sansa’s voice was quiet. “I see.”

A faint snort. “Then you see more than I do.”

“You don’t think you’re going to survive.  _That’s_  why you aren't thinking the long-term consequences of this through.”

“…Well, you have to admit, my chances aren’t the best.”

“So you’re giving up already. I won’t have it.” Her voice was low and fierce. “Listen to me, and listen well, Jon Snow: I don’t give you permission to die.” 

“I don’t  _want_  to die. Not truly. Not anymore. But—”

“Not anymore.” The words were flat.

“…Aye. When… when the Red Woman first brought me back, I wished she’d left me where I was… And then you arrived at Castle Black.” 

Varys had the sinking feeling he was missing some crucial context for this conversation.

_Does this have anything to do with that supposed death of his that Tyrion mentioned?_

“And ruined all your plans,” Lady Sansa murmured bitterly.

“And gave me a reason to  _live_  again,” he corrected her. “A reason to keep fighting.”

“Do you regret that now?” she asked.

“ _Never_.”

He took a step towards her and made a slight, aborted move as though to take her hand in his, before dropping it back to his side. 

_Interesting._

“I need to tell our people the truth,” he said abruptly. “They deserve that much from me. But first, I need to tell Daenerys.”

“Jon, you’ve said it a hundred times—we need Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons to win against the Night King. Why complicate that alliance  _now_? Wait until after the war,  _then_  tell them all if you must.”

Jon let out a sigh.

“The North has a right to know and so does Daenerys,” he said. “I owe it to them. Besides, news like this has a nasty habit of coming out at the worst moment. I’d rather they heard it from me than from someone with an agenda against us. …And that reminds me: Arya said that Littlefinger is dead. What did he  _do_? I swear, if he laid one  _finger_  on you while I was gone—”

“You’ll what? Bring him back and kill him all over again?” she scoffed.

“Aye, if that’s what it takes.”

They held gazes for moment. Jon finally broke away, and began to pace back and forth.

“You didn’t charge him with anything when we regained Winterfell, even with all he’d put you through. What changed?  _What did he do?_ ”

“He finally became more of a liability than an asset;  _I_  finally gained enough support among the Knights of the Vale to see him executed without repercussions; and Bran… Bran told us things about him.”

Silence.

“Did you know that he put poor Jeyne Poole to work in a brothel after he’d  _promised_  he’d find a safe position for her? She was my age, Jon—barely even flowered! He knew she was my best friend and he just… threw her away, like she meant nothing. Like she  _was_  nothing. All because she was nothing to  _him_  and he knew he wouldn’t get caught, so why not profit from it? And… he needed me isolated.”

Jon bared his teeth in a silent snarl as Sansa paused for a moment before continuing her explanation.

“While you were gone, he set Arya and I against one another. He wan—well, it doesn’t matter what he wanted. He didn’t get it in the end.” She raised a shoulder and let it fall in a delicate half-shrug. “Then Bran told us that he’d seen Littlefinger betray Father in the capital; and that  _Littlefinger_  was the one who manipulated Joffrey into killing Father instead of letting him take the Black. Father’s blood was on his hands. The War of the Five Kings was on his hands. When Arya slit Littlefinger’s throat on my command before the lords, it was vengeance as much as it was justice; I don’t regret it.” 

The maidservants' gossip was beginning to make more sense.

“It was a cleaner death than he deserved,” Jon snarled, and Varys listened with fascination. Jon Snow was nearly always sullen, of course, but he’d never seen the boy’s temper explode like this before. 

“It was a sham trial,” Sansa admitted frankly. “I should have waited until we had more than hearsay as evidence. More than just House Stark should have tried him. And when he was found guilty, I ought to have had Arya take his head; that’s what Father would have wanted. But in a way, it was fitting—a sham trial for a sham life. And… I couldn’t suffer him under our roof one day longer. …Are you terribly disappointed in me?”

“Aye,” Jon said, and Sansa flinched, “you’re right—Father wouldn’t have approved of this. You should have executed him in a more honorable fashion. …But I cannot swear I’d not have done the same in your place.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For… for being  _you_ , I suppose. For understanding.”

“And who  _am_  I?” Jon asked, voice bitter and tired. “My whole existence is a lie.”

“You are who you’ve always been—a good man. The sort of man F—” She broke off abruptly. When she spoke again, she sounded flustered. “You’re family, no matter what name you bear. If… if you truly mislike the thought of marrying Daenerys Targaryen  _that_  much—”

“I never said that either,” Jon said quietly.

Silence.

Finally, Sansa said, “Well, you’d best decide soon…  _especially_  if you insist on being jackaninny enough to tell the whole world the truth. You’ll be damning us all unless we already have contingency plans in place.” 

“How? I’m the only one they’d turn on. The rest of you are Starks—you’d be safe. The lords would make you or Bran the North’s ruler, as they should have done from the beginning.”

“Don’t be so naïve,” she snapped. “It will look as though this was all premeditated… as though we were planning to institute a Targaryen restoration all along. We’ll look the worst sort of traitors, even Father. Don’t you  _see_ , Jon? If you fall, we all fall.”

__…_ Planning to institute a Targaryen restoration all along… Even Ned Stark _…?__

Varys’ mind began to race, pieces slotting together like a Braavosi puzzle box even as Jon let out a snort.

“It’s not trustfulness,” he said. “At least, not entirely. If you play your cards right, they’ll be all too eager to believe you were deceived by me. It’s an old tale, aye? The trueborn heirs cheated out of their inheritance by a grasping, treacherous bastard?”

His tone was bitter.

_Fascinating. The boy refuses to lie, yet he's able and willing to exploit the assumptions of others to advance his aims…_

“And you think that I—that  _we_ —would… what? Throw you to the lords for the sake of our own survival?”

“I would hope that you’d see the necessity—”

“Jon. Have you  _met_  Arya?” 

“…point taken. But—”

“There are many things I will do for the sake of survival. This is not yet one of them.”

“Even if I’m  _asking_  it of you?”

“Even if you’re asking it of me,” she confirmed. “Even if I’m still furious with you for giving away the North without a word to any of your advisors or family.”

“And how was I supposed to consult you, Sansa? Ravens can be intercepted. I’ll eat my own boots if all our correspondence wasn’t read by both Varys and Littlefinger.”

...Well, he wasn’t  _wrong_  about that. 

“That doesn’t seem to have bothered you when you wrote to say you’d bent the knee.”

“Because Varys already  _knew_ , and I had faith you’d be able to contain Littlefinger. Do you think I  _wanted_  to give away the North?”

“I think,” Sansa said tartly, “that you never wanted to be King to begin with, so you were all too glad to hand the burden over the second someone who could reestablish the familiar order of things appeared on the scene and displayed so much as an  _ounce_  of trustworthiness as a ruler.”

Varys raised an eyebrow.

Since he’d last seen her, it appeared that Lady Sansa had honed the skill for which the Boltons were so well-known—the art of flaying a man down to the bone.

Or at least she’d learnt to do so to one man.

“Aye, I didn’t want to be King,” Jon said, scowling. “Can you blame me? Gods, the only man who’d want such a thing either doesn’t understand what it entails or doesn’t care about anyone but himself." 

The more Varys listened to Jon Snow, the more he regretted that the boy was no longer King. He'd thought as much in the Dragon Pit, and he couldn't help but think it again now.

Jon let out a small, humorless laugh and added, "But if  _you_  didn’t want me as your king, you could have taken the crown. I know I wasn’t the only one to offer it to you.”

“So this is all  _my_  fault, for not usurping you when I had the chance? Do you really think so little of me?”

“That’s n—” 

“Jon. There’s a difference between accepting you as my king and accepting your choice to abdicate the throne to the daughter of a madman.”

“Daenerys isn’t at fault for her father’s actions.”

“No, she isn’t. But she still has to live with their consequences, just as all of us do. And one of those  _consequences_  is that the North doesn’t trust a Targaryen to light a  _candle_  safely, let alone to rule well.”

“That isn’t fair.” His voice sounded pained.

“ _Life_  isn’t fair, Jon,” she said, running her fingers through her hair in clear exasperation. 

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’m a  _bastard_ , Sansa.”

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“You know what I mean,” he said, expression sullen as ever.

Varys watched this interplay, intrigued. 

“And that’s another reason to wait until after the war against the Dead is won,” Sansa said. “We’re holding on to the trust of our people by a thread right now. If you tell them that you—”

“—I have to tell them, Sansa.” 

Her voice was slightly plaintive as she said, “Yes, but  _now_?”

“Aye. The truth always comes to light sooner or later. If nothing else, Sam is terrible at keeping secrets; it might slip out by accident.”

“You mean someone clever might get it out of him,” Sansa said. 

“Or Gilly might let it slip, not realizing how important it is. Or Little Sam might overhear her and Sam discussing it and parrot it in the presence of someone. Or someone might stumble across the High Septon’s diary, never mind that it’s locked away in my private quarters. There are endless possibilities, Sansa. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be as little of a liar as possible.”

“…Fine. But not tonight or tomorrow, Jon. Give me at least that.”

“I can do that.”

“And we’ll need to discuss what you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it. Not to mention the order in which you’re going to tell people.”

“Aye.” 

“I mean it, Jon. You  _can’t_  go off half-cocked this time. This is too important. Swear that you’ll talk to me before you tell anyone else.”

“Very well. I promise.” His tone was irritated. 

“And you’ll  _listen_  to me?”

“I always do.”

“Then why do you never  _act like it_?”

“Can we not argue right now? I’m tired, Sansa. I’m tired of fighting; tired of lying; tired of… of  _all_  of this.”

She pursed her lips, but gave a jerky nod of consent.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” she said, voice gentler than it had been scant seconds ago.

Jon let out a bitter snort.

“Would you?”

“I’ll send Ghost to you tonight,” she said.

Varys might be wrong, but he could have  _sworn_  Ghost was  _Jon’s_  direwolf, not the Lady Sansa’s.

“No. He’s there to protect you.”

_…ah._

_So_ that's _why we never saw his famous wolf on Dragonstone._

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Lady Sansa said, slowly and clearly, as though speaking to someone more than a tad dim, “I’m in a castle surrounded by fighters sworn to the service of House Stark. I’m plenty protected.”

Jon mumbled something that sounded like ‘that’s what I’m afraid of’.

“Jon. You need him more than I do right now.”

“And if you have another nightmare?”

“You can’t protect me from everything.”

“I can try,” he said. 

She sighed.

“I thought we’d agreed not to argue any more tonight,” she said. “Let’s compromise, shall we? We can share him.”

“What?” Jon's voice was loud and slightly high-pitched with shock. “I’m not sharing a bed with you, Sansa. People will talk, you know they will.”

“I only meant that we could alternate nights,” she said, voice composed though her cheeks looked flushed beneath the torches from Varys' vantage point. 

_Hmmm._

“…Oh,” Jon said. “Right. Yes. That might work.” 

“We should go to my chambers,” Lady Sansa said briskly. “Like as not, Ser Davos is already waiting for us.”

“Has it been that long already?”

“Well, you  _did_  vanish for a bit there… I wasn’t expecting to find you in the crypts again so soon.”

He shrugged.

“I thought knowing who my mother was would make everything easier, somehow,” Jon said at last. He let out a huff of bitter laughter. “Shows you what I know, aye?”

“It’s not that foolish. If your mother had been anyone else…”

“But she isn’t,” he snapped. “And Lord Stark lied to me my whole life.”

“To keep you  _safe_! Father loved you, Jon.”

“I know why he did it. That doesn’t change the fact that he still  _lied_. My father was never the man I thought he was.” 

“Jon. I’m so sorry.”

“The rest of the world might think me mad, but… so am I. Sorry, that is.”

Lady Sansa hesitated visibly, then laid her hand against his shoulder.

Jon appeared to lean into her touch for a moment, but then jerked away from her.

“We’re due to meet with Davos soon,” he said gruffly.

He kept his eyes fixed on the statue before him, however, and thus missed the hurt that Varys saw briefly flicker over her features.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, voice frosty. “It wouldn’t do to be late.”

She turned on her heel and strode towards the stairs.

Jon, however, did not follow. Instead, he continued to stare at the statue in front of him and let out a quiet sigh, shoulders slumping.

After a minute, he put something Varys couldn’t see into the statue’s cupped hands and strode out after Lady Sansa.

Varys waited in his hiding spot for a few minutes. When he was finally convinced that neither Stark would be returning anytime soon, he walked over to the sepulcher to satisfy his curiosity.

It was Lyanna Stark, of course. The masonry was too new to be any other woman, save perhaps Catelyn Stark, and this woman bore no resemblance to her.

She did, however, bear a startling resemblance to Ned and Arya Stark… and to Jon Snow. 

And oh, wasn’t that  _interesting_. Yes, very interesting indeed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show's (understandable) decision to eliminate the [(f)Aegon plotline](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Aegon_Targaryen_\(son_of_Rhaegar\)/Theories) means that Varys' actions as presented on GOT currently make  _no sense whatsoever_. If you can headcanon that Varys has been supporting Dany all along, the more power to you, but that retcon simply doesn't work for me; show!Varys may be considerably stupider than book!Varys (albeit seemingly a better person), but I like to think that he'd have done things differently in early seasons of the show if he were genuinely supporting Viserys and/or Daenerys at that point. As it is, I can only justify Varys and Tyrion's conversation in this chapter with the fact that A. show!Varys likes to show off even when it would be smarter to keep his mouth shut—he's almost a match for Littlefinger in that regard—and B. I get the sense that the Varys/Tyrion friendship is supposed to be the real deal on the show (as opposed to the books).
> 
> I'm calling this chapter an interlude because I don't currently plan for Varys to have any further chapters; he's a _much_ more interesting character if we don't know what he's up to, IMO. As it is, after writing this chapter I have a renewed appreciation for GRRM's ability to write POVs that conceal information from the reader about the POV character's thoughts/knowledge.
> 
> (For the record, the ‘idiot' in question who unintentionally brought about (f)Aegon's death was none other than Jorah Mormont—look, two seasons is an awfully long time for someone to wander around Essos with a highly contagious disease without anything happening!—but neither Varys nor Jorah knows that.)
> 
> As always, although I take forever to respond to comments, please know that feedback of all sorts is sincerely appreciated!


	7. Tyrion II

That was the last Tyrion saw of Jon Snow for over a full day.

Their hosts tried valiantly to distract them from his absence, but it was glaring nonetheless. A few hours’ absence would have been one thing; doubtless the man had much to discuss with his advisors. But when breakfast passed, and then dinner, and then supper, and then breakfast again, and  _still_  there was no sign of him, it was clear that something was amiss.

When questioned, his former wife provided only variations on the same answer.

“Something,” she said, “has come up. It’s nothing to concern yourselves with, I assure you—a minor internal issue—but it is one where time is of the essence. Jon will be with you as soon as possible.” 

“He is my subject,” Daenerys finally snapped in return, having shown a near-heroic amount of forbearance till now, in Tyrion’s opinion. “What affects him, affects me. I have a right to know the reason for these delays.”

That was the absolute worst tack to take with Sansa right now, and if Daenerys hadn’t been so upset, she would have realized it too.

“I am but one of Jon’s advisors, Your Grace,” Sansa said in placation. “I am afraid that it is not my place to tell you without his permission.”

From her place behind her lady, Lady Brienne's lips thinned. 

This was bullshit, of course—“but one of Jon’s advisors”, indeed!—and both he and Daenerys knew it, but it was a lie they couldn’t call Sansa on without acknowledging her true position in the North. To acknowledge such a thing would be tantamount to legitimating it, and  _that_  would disrupt the fragile peace and balance of power they had all worked so hard to construct here.

“Then take me to him and let  _him_  tell me.”

“She can’t. He’s given orders that he’s not to be disturbed,” Arya Stark chimed in, sliding out of the shadows and into view.

Only his familiarity with Varys’ tendency to do the same thing kept him from starting in surprise. 

Arya’s face and voice were utterly without expression, but Tyrion somehow got the sense that she was smirking. Or perhaps scowling?

He had been wrong, earlier, when he’d thought her easy to read. These Starks were far more complicated than they first appeared.

“I am his  _queen_. My word takes precedence.” 

“Not in Winterfell, my lady,” Arya said.

Now that  _was_  a hidden smirk, or Tyrion would eat his boots.

“ _Arya_ ,” Sansa hissed. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

He noticed, however, that she did not contradict her sister’s words. 

She continued, “He will join us for supper this evening and you may question him then. …Now, have you had any word of your armies’ progress, Your Grace? Jon’s small council is growing  _most_  impatient for reports.”

And wasn’t  _that_  a clever way to change the subject. Putting them on the defense, as it were,  _and_  reminding them that the North still viewed Jon as their king despite his having openly bent the knee in King’s Landing, all in one fell swoop.

Daenerys’ face froze; she recognized that piece of word-craft for what it was too. 

Eager to prevent further discord, Tyrion spoke in her place.

“None, my lady. But I do not doubt that we shall hear from them soon.” 

This, naturally, was a blatant lie, and one that all parties present could easily identify as such.

The Dothraki, though excellent fighters and undoubtedly loyal to their Queen, were not reliable communicators over a distance. The main problem was that their notion of time worked differently, or so Daenerys had explained once—something about it not being linear? Tyrion still wasn’t entirely sure how this prevented them from regularly sending a raven with updates.

But it wasn't just a matter of the Dothraki not having been in communication… Jorah and the Hound, who were accompanying the Dothraki on their journey North, hadn't sent a raven in nearly a fortnight. Tyrion could well believe that Sandor Clegane was an indifferent correspondent at best, but _Jorah_?

“Of course,” Sansa said, only letting the barest trace of her skepticism show through. “Perhaps, then, you would be so kind as to join me in my solar? I would greatly appreciate it if you would go through a few numbers with me, so we might be prepared to host them when they  _do_ arrive.”

There was only one possible answer: 

“But of course,” Tyrion murmured. “Lead the way, my lady.”

 

 

The Starks, Tyrion reflected, were going to drive him to drink.

…To drink even  _more_ , that was.

If it wasn’t Bran making cryptic statements, it was Jon and his new disappearing act. If it wasn’t Sansa’s polite doublespeak and pointed questions, it was Arya and her ability to pop up out of nowhere with an oddly menacing smirk.

Her closing words from the night before still rang in his ears:

_“Remember. The Lannisters aren’t the only ones who pay their debts, and winter is here.”_

He’d half thought he’d dreamt the entire scene by the time he awoke in the morning.

Come to think of it, he  _still_  wasn’t entirely sure whether it had actually happened. That was half the reason he hadn’t yet told Daenerys.

The other half was her temper. Daenerys was fiercely protective of those she had claimed as her own; she was rather like the Starks in that respect. He shuddered to think how she’d respond if she ever learned that one of their hosts had threatened her Hand in his own chamber. Her ensuing actions might well ruin the alliance they had worked so hard to build with the Starks.

There was no time for that.

He gave in to the urge to massage his temples against the oncoming headache.

It was true, Tyrion had always thrived on intrigue, but he struggled to remember a time that the stakes had been even half this high. They could not afford infighting with an enemy so dangerous ahead of them, even less than he’d been able to afford it during his defense of King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon.

 _Of course, if that scenario is any indication, this should end with Cersei doing her utmost to screw us all over and with_ me _waking from my sickbed to learn that I’ve been betrayed, cheated of credit for my efforts, and demoted._

He snorted. 

No, he had no desire to repeat the past.

But thinking about Blackwater Bay had given him an idea…

Perhaps it was time to send his brother a raven.

 

 

Daenerys cornered Jon the moment she saw him in the corridor near the Great Hall on their way to supper. So absorbed was she in her mission that she entirely forgot to dismiss Tyrion.

“What  _happened_ , Jon?” Daenerys asked in a fierce whisper. “Don’t you know how embarrassing it was to be forced to repeatedly ask your lady sister whether I could see you, as though I were some… some common  _petitioner_ , only to be rejected time and again? This  _cannot_ happen in the future.”

Tyrion promptly tried to blend into the wall. This was  _not_  a conversation he had any desire to be in the middle of.

To _observe_ , yes, but not whilst trapped between the two parties.

“She’s not—” 

The reply seemed to spring from his lips involuntarily, if the way he flinched and cut himself off was any indication.

Tyrion blinked in surprise.

Jon had never struck him as one to deny a familial connection. In fact, he’d  _always_  referred to Sansa and Arya as his sisters. Even back when Tyrion had first met Jon—when his relationship with Sansa had been distant and cool and painstakingly proper—Jon had still called her his sister.

What precisely had happened to change that?

Daenerys’ lips tightened and she said, “ _Half_ -sister, then, if you must be pedantic. But I don’t care about her right now, Jon Snow—I’m talking about  _us_. About  _your_  behavior… and the position that it put  _me_  in.”

“I’m sorry, Daenerys. I was… unavoidably detained, but it was never my intention to cause you worry.” 

“You think too highly of yourself,” she retorted, lifting her chin.

But she  _had_  been worried, Tyrion knew, and his refusal to see her had bruised that soft heart of hers as much as it had her pride. This was simply her way of saving face. 

 _“A Khaleesi cannot show weakness,” she had told him once, late at night in the midst of a planning session. They were the only two left at the table and she had drunk more deeply than usual; he suspected the latter was partially behind this sudden openness. “She must be strong for her people. How are they to have confidence if their ruler does not? …Besides, the Dothraki despise weakness and will not abide it in a ruler of theirs. If Drogo had ever stumbled, many would have arisen from his khalasar to challenge him for his place, just as the Usurper rose to challenge my father. I cannot afford to stumble… not when I am so close. I cannot afford to be seen as_ weak _. My brother, Viserys, was cruel and weak and often stupid, but he had this much right: the Dragon_ will _prevail. I will see it so.”_

Jon seemed to know he had hurt her too, if the shamed look on his face was anything to go by.

“I learned who my mother was.”

The words exited his mouth in a rush, and Tyrion’s ears pricked in interest.

_And…? What was the name of this woman who convinced the scrupulous Ned Stark to set aside his much-vaunted honor?_

Daenerys’ face shifted from irritation to genuine pleasure.

“I am happy for you,” she said, taking his arm with a smile. “I know you have long desired this… but I do not see why such news necessitated locking yourself away from your friends for so long. Or why you seem so morose about it all. Unless… is she dead, your mother?”

“Aye,” Jon said, gaze distant. “She died bringing me into the world.”

“I’m so sorry,” Daenerys said.

Jon didn’t react to this. Instead, he repeated, “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble. It’s just… it was too new. Too raw. …Too personal. I  _couldn’t_ , Daenerys. I’m still absorbing it, for true.”

“Too personal,” she echoed flatly, a brief flash of pain showing in her lovely violet eyes as she removed her hand from his arm. “I see.”

“It’s not like that,” Jon protested. 

A pale eyebrow arched imperiously and she said, “Isn’t it?”

 

 

Supper that night was, to put it lightly, tense. Perhaps even more so than their other meals at Winterfell thus far.

He’d been seated at his Queen’s right-hand side, just as Ser Davos Seaworth had been seated at Jon Snow’s. 

 _A body with two Hands_   _is one thing. A body with two Heads, on the other hand…_

It simply wasn’t sustainable.

_Not unless those two Heads wed to form one, leastways._

And seeing as Jon had already bent the knee, marrying him seemed somewhat redundant.

 _Of course, who are her other options? There are no Tyrells or Baratheons or Martells left, and the only living male Tullys are married or an infant. Westeros would never accept a Greyjoy even if there were a suitable male available, which there isn’t, and_ Daenerys _will never accept a Lannister. Young Robyn Arryn is always a possibility, I suppose, but he’s a boy, and a sickly one at that. Besides, the Vale and the Riverlands owe their allegiance to the King in the North, which means that when Jon Snow bent the knee, both automatically became part of Daenerys’ kingdom._

_Hmmm… We still need to shore up support in the Reach. A Marcher lord would only be asking for trouble from the Dornish, of course, but a Hightower, perhaps, or the Rowan heir? Ser Courtnay Penrose would have been ideal, if only he hadn’t died during the War of the Five Kings, damn him._

_And now that the Tyrells are extinct, we’ll need to appoint new Houses to the titles of Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, and Lord Paramount of the Reach. If_ only _Daenerys hadn’t burnt_ both _of the Tarlys… Randyll or his son would have made for an admirable Warden, which would have saved us from giving the Hightowers too much power when we install Ser Baelor as Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount, while also pacifying the Florents due to their relation to the Tarlys by marriage._

He let out a sigh, and forced himself to refocus on the current issue.

_No, bastard and already sworn to her though he may be, Jon Snow is likely Daenerys’ best choice. The North is proud, and having its king become King of the Seven Kingdoms will go a ways towards smoothing its reintegration back into the Seven Kingdoms along with the Vale and the Riverlands._

_Besides, this way the North will be tied to our cause even if Jon should fall in battle. And considering how likely that's—_

Jon Snow cleared his throat and got to his feet, snapping Tyrion out of his musings. 

Slowly, all sound in the hall died down. 

“My lords, my ladies,” he said. “I know there have been whispers. Whispers that in order to secure the help we so desperately need, I have bent the knee to a foreign invader.”

The hall was so silent you could have heard a pin drop.

Normally, Tyrion would have used this opportunity to observe the important political actors’ reactions, but for once, he was on tenterhooks as much as the rest of them.

“These whispers are wrong.” 

Tyrion raised an eyebrow in surprise, and waited to see where Jon Snow would go with this.

“Daenerys Targaryen is neither foreign, nor an invader,” Jon continued.

 _Ahhhhh. Clever._  

“She was born in Westeros. It is true, she has come to rule the Seven Kingdoms, but she has not come to invade the North… she has come to  _save_  us from the true invader—the Night King and his legion of White Walkers and wights. In heeding our plea for aid, she has put her quest for the Iron Throne on hold and—”

“And we’re to believe she’s, what? Doing this out of the goodness of her heart?” one of the men spat, getting to his feet. “What does she ask in return?”

There was a chorus of agreement from the audience. 

Jon frowned. “My lords, I understand you are reluctant to cede any power to a Targaryen—”

“So you  _have_ bent the knee?” a young girl in the crowd asked in a carrying voice, now rising to her feet. Her round face was solemn and her dark eyes flashed with an emotion that looked like betrayal. As he looked closer, he noticed the sigil embroidered on her black cloak—a black bear rampant, outlined in white and green threads. House Mormont. This must be Jorah’s niece, the Lady Lyanna.

Jon took a deep breath and then said, “Aye. Providing we survive this war, I have pledged to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, the first of her name.” 

The hall exploded.

Tyrion quickly scanned the room. As Northerners and Vale knights rose to their feet and shouted, the Unsullied present stiffened, prepared to protect the Queen should it become necessary. Missandei's expression went still even as her eyes darted worriedly towards Daenerys.

Finally, he glanced to his left. Daenerys’ face was carefully blank, but her eyes flashed with frustration as her fingers dug deeper into the arms of her chair.

As per their earlier discussions, she was clearly trying to let Jon handle this on his own, but he could tell it was difficult for her to remain silent when pejoratives were being flung at herself and her lover.

Daenerys was a woman of action, and passivity had always chafed her. That was something she and Jon Snow had in common.

“My lords, this is not a decision I have undertaken lightly,” Jon bellowed. “Untold numbers of our people, including my brother Robb,  _died_  because they were fighting for independence.”

“Aye,” a man in the crowd called, “and now you’ve spat on their sacrifices, all for the sake of some Targaryen cun—” 

“I would not finish that sentence, if I were you, my lord,” Jon said coldly. “You are in shock. I make allowances for your loss of temper. But you will  _not_  imply such a thing again. Nor will you show such disrespect to Queen Daenerys, who is a lady and a guest in our hall.” 

Ghost bared his teeth in a silent growl of agreement from his place by Jon’s side, and every hair on Tyrion’s body stood on end.

 _Warning_ , they screamed.  _Danger._

Had anyone ever doubted Jon’s Stark heritage, this display would have been ample confirmation… no one but a Stark could be so cuttingly frigid.

 _Like the Wall itself—cold and sharp and smooth; fathomless_.

He’d seen it in his erstwhile wife before, but this was the first time he’d seen it in Jon Snow, whose temper, on the rare occasions that it flared, tended towards the hot rather than the cold. 

 _The wolfsblood_ , he’d heard that hot-bloodedness called. Truly, the Starks were a puzzle of dualities.

The man who’d spoken was no fool… or at least not such a fool as to challenge Jon Snow when he was like this. He backed down instantly, though he made no apologies.

Grimly, Jon continued, “I will never forget the sacrifices made in pursuit of the North’s independence. But survival  _must_  come above all else. Know this, my lords—we  _need_  Daenerys Targaryen’s help if we are to survive. The Dead have no need to sleep or to eat; they do not tire and they experience no pain. They have the advantage over us in numbers, in stamina, and in the ability to suborn our fighters to their side.” His voice rose in emphasis as he spoke. “Make no mistake—the North is my home and I will  _never_  stop fighting for it. But without the men, dragonglass, and dragons Queen Daenerys brings to this alliance, we have no chance against the Night King’s army.”

There was further outcry at this.

“What does a Targaryen know of the North?” Another man spat, his blue eyes hard. “We don’t need  _her_  kind of  _help_.”

“And how would  _you_  suggest we defeat the Dead, Lord Glover?” little Lady Lyanna Mormont scoffed. “The men and women of Bear Island are fierce fighters; every one of us is worth ten mainlanders. But years of war have whittled the North’s numbers, and even  _our_ presence on the battlefield cannot fully compensate for that loss. And why _should_ our people be the only ones fighting to protect all of Westeros? A Targaryen has no business ruling the North, but only a simpleton would turn away her army's aid against the Dead.”

Tyrion smirked.

The Lady of Bear Island might be young, but it was clear she was not one to suffer fools lightly. It was equally clear that the other lords respected her despite her age and gender.

If cultivated properly, she’d be a valuable ally.

_I’ll have Ser Jorah spend some time with her when he arrives; he'll know best how to speak to her, one Northerner to another. Besides, the girl's mother and sisters are all dead. Doubtless she'll be glad to learn she still has family left to her… and will be all the more easily influenced by him for it._

“And what good will those men of hers do us?” Glover snorted. “Dothraki savages and eunuchs who’ve never seen snow before, let alone fought in it. When they fall, they’ll just be more wights for us to fight. Pah! Here's what I have to say to their 'help' _…_ ”

He spat loudly on the floor.

Several of the Unsullied stirred angrily again at this, and Lady Sansa now entered the fray from her place at the High Table. In the torches, her auburn hair shone like a river of burnished copper, but her eyes were chips of ice.

“Winterfell would not turn away additional grain for our stores,” Sansa said, voice level but cold, “Nor would we turn away weapons with which to fight the Night King’s army. Tell me, my lord, do  _you_  have dragons? Or a cache of dragonglass you’ve neglected to mention?”

“That’s hardly the point, my lady,” Lord Glover blustered, face reddening beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “Who’s to say what this Targaryen woman’s real agenda is, hmm?” The word 'Targaryen' might as well have been a curse in Glover’s mouth, and the way in which he said 'woman' made it clear that he meant something far less polite. “And who's to say how she  _convinced_ His Grace to betray his people? Meaning no offense, my lady, but if you think I’ll stand by and let history repeat itself, then—”

“My brother is your  _king_ , Glover,” Lady Arya snapped sharply, leaning forward to interrupt him. “You owe him your respect. And considering you refused my brother and sister's call for aid against the Boltons, _you_  have no room to speak of betrayals.”

Glover fell silent, but another Northerner rushed to take his place.

“Lord Glover may forget his place, but he has a point." The speaker was a painfully thin woman with iron grey hair and even steelier eyes. “Why  _should_  we follow this Targaryen queen? She has a  _Lannister_  as her Hand, and we all know too well what atrocities  _they_ are capable of. We have only just rid the North of the Boltons; I see no reason to give their benefactors a foothold here.”

She was greeted with cheers of "Here, here!" and Tyrion blinked in surprise at the sudden vitriolic inclusion of his person in the conversation.

In retrospect, he supposed it shouldn't have come as a shock at all; his family had done little and less to endear themselves to the North. _  
_

“Pardon me,” a familiar female voice said. It was Missandei, standing tall and proud, her face shining with conviction. She managed to give the impression of quietude even as she spoke loudly enough to be heard by the entire hall. “I am not from this country, but I know my Queen. And my queen has _never_ been a party to the Boltons' misdeeds— _would_ never be a party to their misdeeds. Daenerys Stormborn believes in justice, not cruelty; she protects those who cannot protect themselves. You ask why you should follow her? Because she has earned it, a thousand times over. I follow her because I believe in her. _All_ of us who came with her from Essos believe in her. She's not our queen because she's the daughter of some long dead king… she's our queen because we _want_ her to be our queen; because we _chose_ her.”

A comely wildling woman let out a derisive snort and tossed back her thick black braids. “Well  _I_ never chose her. If she is a worthy queen, she'll fight the Dead whether we kneel or no. And if she is unworthy…” She let the words trail off and shrugged her broad shoulders, ragged furs shifting with the movement. She turned now to address the High Table. “You may have forgotten our ways, Jon Snow, but we Free Folk do not kneel. We have fought with you, aye, and we heed your laws while we are on your land, but we have never knelt to you. We follow you because you earned our respect. This Kneeler queen o' yours hasn't even done  _that_ yet.”

Clamor enveloped the hall once more, with men and women shouting over one another to be heard.

“—dragons aren't—”

“—but the Night King will—”

Tyrion turned to see how his Queen was handling this. Her eyes were blazing and her knuckles were white against the arms of her chair. To his surprise, however, that anger rapidly seemed to give way to aggrievement and perplexity.

“—can't trust—” 

“—does it matter—”

“—and gods know what else—”

“—forget that—”

Jon pounded on the High Table. When the room finally grew silent, he began to speak again. 

“You all chose me as your king—I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it. But I trusted you, and I accepted your will. Now I ask you to trust  _me_ , the man  _you_  chose. Over the past few months, I have come to know Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Ask yourselves—if I thought Queen Daenerys unfit to rule us, would I have bent the knee to her? I do not ask that you accept her as your queen… not yet. However, I  _do_  insist that you treat her with respect, and ask that you keep an open mind. Queen Daenerys is not her father. Allow her to prove that to you. Allow her to show you why thousands of men have chosen to follow her… Allow her to tell you of the better world she hopes—nay, the better world she  _will_  build.”

There was much grumbling in the hall. The lords seemed somewhat placated by Jon’s words, but Tyrion could tell it was a temporary solution at best.

Then—

“Karhold will stand with you, Your Grace,” a gawky young woman with plaited red hair called. Though her voice wavered over the first few words, it rang out strong and clear by the end. “Now and always.”

"Now and always," the mousy boy at her side agreed.

Young Lady Mormont seemingly took this as a sign to add her voice to the tumult.

“House Mormont declared you King, Your Grace," she announced loudly, "and we are no oathbreakers. If you brought a Targaryen North, we must accept that you had your reasons. So we will let her fight beside us. We will watch and we will listen… and we will judge her accordingly.”

Her words sounded more like a threat than a reassurance.

“I can ask no more, my lady,” Jon said, nodding at her.

“But Bear Island remembers, Your Grace,” Lady Mormont continued, her high, childish voice at odds with the solemn defiance of her words. It was unclear which ruler she was speaking to now—Jon or Daenerys. Perhaps both. “The _North_ remembers. And we know no King—or Queen—but the one in the North, whose name is Stark.” 

Daenerys stiffened beside him, and Tyrion felt a chill run down his spine.

_Just what is she implying?_

“The Targaryens tried to change that,” Lady Mormont said proudly. “The Baratheons tried. The Lannisters tried. Yet  _here we stand_.”

The Mormont words.

Her speech was greeted with stamps and shouts of agreement from most of the men and women in the hall. 

The look on Jon’s face as he looked about the room was one that Tyrion could not place. Sad, perhaps. Proud? Guilty? Tired?

Even the Knights of the Vale were nodding and shouting in approval, perhaps egged on by their Northern compatriots.

Daenerys now took to her feet.

 _Well, she lasted longer than I thought she would_.

“Jon Snow speaks truly,” she said, and sound in the room died down once more. “It was only  _after_  he had proof that I could be trusted to put the good of his people above my own desires that your stubborn King bent the knee.”

Her lips twitched upwards in a faint smile, and there was genuine warmth in her eyes and voice as she spoke about Jon. 

“Despite what you may have heard, I have not come to subjugate you, to burn your crops and your children. That is Cersei Lannister—a woman who used wildfire on the Great Sept, slaughtering holy men and her  _own family_   _members_  for the sake of her personal vengeance. I am not here to burn your godswoods or to make human sacrifices—that was Stannis Baratheon. I am here to help you, to  _protect_  you. I am here to defeat the Night King. I am here to destroy the wheel that has trampled the downtrodden to the benefit only of the Cersei Lannisters of the world.”

She glowed with purpose as she spoke, cheeks flushed and violet eyes alight. Daenerys was always beautiful, but as she stood before the North—spine straight, silver hair glinting like moonlight on ice—Tyrion's breath briefly caught in his lungs. 

He could see that many in the hall were giving her their rapt attention, however involuntary it might be. They still looked skeptical, of course, but that was to be expected at so early a date.

Jon Snow’s expression remained as solemn as ever, yet his gaze on Daenerys was intent, and Tyrion fancied the furrows in his brow lightened the longer he listened to her.

“The North, I am told, is proud,” Daenerys said. “I respect that. I—”

“And why should I believe that?” Lady Mormont asked, face scornful. "You speak pretty words, my lady, but words are wind.” 

“If you respected us, you'd not ask us to kneel to you,” a man with a broad nose and close-cropped brown whiskers agreed gruffly. The heavy fur draped about his shoulders seemed to bristle with indignation. “You'd  _respect_ that we want to be ruled by one of our own.”

A loud chorus of “aye”s met his words.

Daenerys opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off once more.

“And what of those monsters of yours?” another man asked, Northern accent so thick that Tyrion half-expected it to visibly congeal in the air. “ _You_ may not be here to burn us, but what about _them_?”

Now it was Daenerys' turn to bristle.

“And who do I have the honor of addressing?" she asked icily.

“Lord Rodrik Mazin,” the man said defiantly. 

 _Brave, but stupid_ , Tyrion decided.

“Well, _Lord Rodrik Mazin_ , you'll be glad enough for those 'monsters' of mine when they're all that stand between you and the Dead,” Daenerys said. She took a deep breath and added in a more measured tone, “I understand your concerns. But I assure you, my lord, my dragons will not harm you… Not unless I tell them to.” 

A bit of her temper seemed to have crept back in at the end.

Tyrion opened his mouth to soften her statement, but another voice rang out before he could do so.

“I thought you weren't here to burn us?” the wildling woman who'd spoken earlier said, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes were sharp and the expression on her dark face cynical.

“I'm not,” Daenerys agreed. “I am here to defend you from the White Walkers. _They_ are the ones who will feel my children's wrath.”

“Your _children_?” a man snorted.

She looked at him coolly and said, “Yes, my children. I bled to bring them into this world as all mothers do. Not that I'd expect a man to understand that.”

A few of the women in the hall chuckled appreciatively.

Spirits seemingly bolstered, Daenerys continued, “I respect that the North is proud. I too am proud. I am proud that Jon Snow chose me as his Queen. It is my hope that someday I may be proud that you have done the same. Together, we will create a better world—a world  _deserving_  of our pride.” 

When no applause or cheers came, she nodded regally at the room, and took her seat once more.

Tyrion sent Daenerys an approving look. As far as inspirational speeches went, this one was far better than that which she’d given the Lannister and Tarly forces.

He frowned, however, when he saw Lady Sansa now getting to  _her_  feet.

_What is she up to?_

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she told Daenerys, giving her a shallow curtsey and a polite smile, which Daenerys returned cautiously. She then turned to the hall. “My lords, my ladies, I know all of this has come as a shock." She sent her brother a quick, hard glance that Tyrion promptly tucked away for future thought. "It is no insult to Queen Daenerys or Jon, I think, to say that this is not what any of us of the North or the Vale had hoped for.”

The crowd rumbled in agreement, but she silenced them with one hand. 

“My ancestor, King Torrhen Stark, knew there was no shame in bending the knee to the Dragons; it was the only way to ensure his people’s survival. Thanks to his foresight, not only were thousands of lives spared, but the North remained whole and under the aegis of its traditional overlords.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “Lord Royce, the Vale has a similar story, does it not?” 

The rotund man blinked in surprise at being spoken to, but recovered quickly. 

“Yes, my lady,” he said, puffing his breastplated chest out. His face seemed torn between beaming at the attention from the Lady of Winterfell and frowning at the point she was making through him. “It is said that the Queen Regent of the time, Sharra Arryn, yielded to Queen Visenya when she found the boy-king Ronnel Arryn resting in Visenya’s lap. In return for bending the knee, the Arryns kept their lives and were declared Wardens of the East and Defenders of the Vale.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “So when presented with a similar situation, what should we do? Should we do as the Reach did and be crushed under a superior force, wasting thousands of lives that could have been used in the fight against the Night King? Or should we do as our forebears did?” 

The question was clearly rhetorical, but one of the men chose to answer anyway.

“You speak as though there are only two choices, my lady,” a man with a bushy grey beard said gruffly, “but it is not so.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa conceded. Before she could say any more, however, Lord Royce began to speak again.

“What guarantee do we have that she’ll be true to her word even if we do bend the knee?” he asked loudly. “Meaning no offense, Your Grace”—He nodded in Jon’s direction, jowls quivering with the motion—“but she lured you to Dragonstone under false pretenses, then imprisoned you. Seems to me she's following in her father's footsteps. After he imprisoned the men who dared accompany your Uncle Brandon in demanding justice for Rhaegar’s crimes, he summoned their fathersto court. When their fathers arrived, however, he killed them all… lords and their sons alike. He burned your grandfather alive in a so-called 'trial by combat', tortured your uncle to death, and then commanded Lord Arryn to give him the heads of his wards. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, much less one advised by a  _Lannister_. I’d sooner die fighting under Stark rule than live under a Targaryen one, and I'm sure young Lord Arryn will feel the same when he receives my raven.” 

“Your conviction and loyalty are admirable, my lord," Lady Sansa said, voice cool. "But would you so readily make that same choice for your children and your grandchildren?” She turned now to address the entire hall. “Remember, when you chose Jon as your King, you chose to abide by his judgment. Jon trusts Queen Daenerys and has made his decision accordingly. As his subjects, we will abide by it.”

Her tone was firm.

Was it just his imagination, though, or was she implicitly adding ‘ _for now_ ’ to the end of that last sentence?

As he scanned the room, Tyrion noted that Arya Stark was giving her sister a look that was half exasperation, half approval.

Much of the rest of the hall seemed to fall on the exasperated side of the scale. Unless Tyrion missed his guess—and he rarely did—Sansa and Jon would be dealing with complaints from the moment they left the high table tonight. He didn’t envy them the task.

Still, it was good to know that she could be counted on to pacify the discontented nobles rather than incite them further… not that he had ever truly thought otherwise. Familial loyalty ran too deeply in the Starks for that. 

Then again, if ever there had been something that could split the Starks apart, it was their loyalty to their home…

…And speaking of Starks, Jon Snow had just sent Sansa a brief, thankful look that seemed to suggest she’d  _personally_  hung the moon and half the stars in the sky. A look, now that Tyrion thought on it, that was uncomfortably, indefinably different from the ones he'd favored his other sister with.

Tyrion sighed and resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands.

_Wine._

Yes, that was what he needed.

He gestured for a servant to refill his goblet.

Truly, the Starks were  _terrible_  for his drinking habits.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I see it, the people of the North and the Vale have _very_ legitimate reasons to be upset about Jon bending the knee to Dany, even if some of those reasons are supported in part by misconceptions. (For instance, although the lords have no way of knowing it, _Tyrion_ is the one at fault for luring Jon to Dragonstone under false pretenses, not Dany, who was 100% clear when she told Tyrion to write Jon that "His Queen summons him to Dragonstone... to bend the knee".) Unfortunately, I suspect Season 8 of GOT will emphasize the whole 'stubborn pride' angle over any actual valid issues. Which isn't to say that 'stubborn pride', grudges, and some _serious_ xenophobia aren't at work here too! Hopefully I've struck a reasonable balance between those intertwined motivations in this chapter. Misconceptions aside, most people in the Great Hall still aren't being entirely fair (let alone diplomatic) towards Dany right now... but was anyone other than Dany genuinely expecting them to be?
> 
> Even if the main branch of the Tyrells were to be wiped out in ASOIAF (and there are far more of them in the books than on the show!), there would still be ample Tyrells left to inherit Highgarden. GOT included a few 'lesser' Tyrell cousins in the form of Margaery's handmaidens, but the GOT wiki claims that [House Tyrell](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/House_Tyrell#Current_Status) is now extinct (presumably based on Tyrion's line in 7x05 that Cersei "destroyed House Tyrell for all time"?), so I can only suppose that we're supposed to believe _all_ of the remaining Tyrells died in the Great Sept explosion and/or in the battle at Highgarden. Which seems rather improbable to me, but OK. Anyway, that's why I have Tyrion pondering the inheritance crisis in the Reach rather than simply passing the Tyrell seat and titles on to a 'lesser' Tyrell relation. (Why isn't Tyrion pondering the inheritance crises of other regions too, you ask? Well, he's a smart man, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have his blind spots... as can be seen in multiple places in this chapter.)
> 
> Also, I know the audience in Northern 'court' scenes on the show has been 99% men, but I call bullshit on that. Large numbers of lords and their heirs (and their spares!) died in the War of the Five Kings, so there should be a fair number of ladies who are in charge now too. Of course, if we're going by the books or by genuine historical precedent, there should have been more women—including women of color—in positions of power in earlier seasons as well, so... *shrugs* Besides, surely the Free Folk have other representatives at these meetings aside from Tormund? I mean, they're composed of numerous different clans; I have a difficult time seeing them being content with only one person acting as their voice. So this fic is going to include a few ASOIAF female characters who haven't appeared on the show and some original female characters to help balance the scales. 
> 
> As always, if you have the spoons to spare, I'd love it if you'd drop me a review! Assuming all goes according to plan, the next chapter will finally be _Sansa I_.


End file.
